Published by Karl Rademacher on November 19, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 28, Issue 28 Poetry

I will die from a cancer of the spine

Boris Vian (1920-1959), translated by F.J. Bergmann
I will die from a cancer of the spine

I will die from a cancer of the spine
It will happen on a horrible evening
Fair, warm, perfumed, sensual
I will die from the putrefaction
Of specific, little-known cells
I will die from having a leg torn off
By a giant rat springing out of a giant hole
I will die from a hundred cuts
The sky will have fallen on me
Breaking itself like a heavy windowpane
I will die from the boom of voices
Imploding my eardrums
I will die from deafened wounds
Inflicted at 2 a.m.
By bald and indecisive killers
I will die without noticing
That I am dying, I will die
Buried under the desiccated ruins
Of a thousand collapsed cotton bales
I will die drowned in the engine oil
Trampled underfoot by indifferent beasts
And immediately again, by different beasts
I will die naked, or wearing red cloth
Or sewn into a sack full of razor blades
Perhaps I will die without putting
Nail polish on my toes
And my hands filled with tears
And my hands filled with tears
I will die when someone unsticks
My eyelids under a rabid sun
When someone slowly speaks
Cruelties into my ear
I will die from seeing children tortured
And stunned and ashen men
I will die gnawed alive
By worms, I will die with
My hands tied beneath a torrent
I will die burned in a sorrowful fire
I will die a little, a lot,
Without passion, but with interest
And then when everything is finished
I will die.

Boris Vian (1920-1959)
Je mourrai d’un cancer vertebrale

Ce sera par un soir horrible
Clair, chaud, parfumé, sensuel
Je mourrai d’un pourrissement
De certaines cellules peu connues
Je mourrai d’une jambe arrachée
Par un rat géant jailli d’un trou géant
Je mourrai de cent coupures
Le ciel sera tombé sur moi
Ca se brise comme une vitre lourde
Je mourrai d’un éclat de voix
Crevant mes oreilles
Je mourrai de blessures sourdes
Infligées à deux heures du matin
Par des tueurs indécis et chauves
Je mourrai sans m’apercevoir
Que je meurs, je mourrai
Enseveli sous les ruines sèches
De mille mètres de coton écroulé
Je mourrai noyé dans de l’huile de vidange
Foulé aux pieds par des bêtes indifférentes
Et juste après par des bêtes différentes
Je mourrai nu, ou vêtu de toile rouge
Ou cousu dans un sac avec des lames de rasoir
Je mourrai peut être sans m’en faire
Du vernis à ongles aux doigts de pied
Et des larmes plein les mains
Et des larmes plein les mains
Je mourrai quand on décollera
Mes paupières sous un soleil enragé
Quand on me dira lentement
Des méchancetés à l’oreille
Je mourrai de voir torturer des enfants
Et des hommes étonnés et blêmes
Je mourrai rongé vivant
Par des vers, je mourrai
Les mains attachées sous une cascade
Je mourrai brûlé dans un incendie triste
Je mourrai un peu, beaucoup,
Sans passion, mais avec intérêt
Et puis quand tout sera fini
Je mourrai.

French poet:
Boris Vian (1920-1959) was a noted French Surrealist novelist, playwright and poet, as well as a songwriter and jazz musician. Inspired by use of mescaline, he wrote successful hard-boiled novels, pretending to be their translator—the banning of these works for “moral outrage” can only have helped their sales. He translated Van Vogt’s The World of Null-A into French.
 
Translation notes:
I’m bilingual in French as a result of having lived in Paris for a couple of years during a critical part of my childhood. A fondness for Surrealism led me to Alain Bosquet and then Boris Vian. This poem is from Je voudrais pas crever (1962, Éditions Fayard). John C. Mannone has pointed out that at least two other translations are available online, and comparing my version to those has been interesting. In a few lines, my wording is identical; in others there are differences in syntax, level of diction, and even the interpreted meaning of words. Some choices are more or less arbitrary; e.g., deciding whether contractions fit with the tone of the poem in the original language (I decided that they did not), some depend on knowing colloquial conventions as opposed to literal meanings: “colonne vertébrale” does indeed mean “vertebral column”—but it is the common term for “spine” or “backbone” in French, and I much prefer the flow of the line with “spine.” But some ostensibly simple French words are almost impossible to translate accurately and depend almost entirely on context; the pronoun “on,” for instance, can mean “we,” “they,” “somebody,” or “you” depending on how it is used—and does not quite correspond to any of them. But English, in general, has a wider choice of terms than are available in French; English cannibalizes almost every language it encounters, assimilating a truly enormous vocabulary from global sources. Each translator will make word choices based on accuracy of meaning for individual terms, resonance with the phonetics, rhythm and context of the source, and a feel for the basic style of the work, as well as the idiosyncrasies of individual aesthetics.

The word vers translates as not only the plural of “worms,” but also as “verse.” Unfortunately, the pun is not possible in English.
 
Translating poet: 
F.J. Bergmann writes poetry and speculative fiction, often simultaneously, appearing in The 5-2, Black Treacle, North American Review, On Spec, Right Hand Pointing, and elsewhere. Editor of Star*Line, the journal of the Science Fiction Poetry Association (sfpoetry.com), and poetry editor of Mobius: The Journal of Social Change (mobiusmagazine.com).

 
“Je mourrai d’un cancer de la colonne vertébrale”
extract of « JE VOUDRAIS PAS CREVER »
by  Boris  Vian

© Société Nouvelle des Editions Pauvert1962, 1996
© Librairie Arthème Fayard 1999 pour l’édition en œuvres complètes

The poem, “Je mourrai d’un cancer vertebrale,” is reproduced and translated with permission, courtesy of:

Titulaire du compte : Librairie Arthème Fayard
Domiciliation agence Société Générale :
Société Générale, agence Paris Opéra (03620)
6, rue Auber – 75009 PARIS
Tel : 01 53 30 57 00
Références bancaires :
Banque : 30003
Agence : 03080
N° de compte : 00020027011
Clé : 09
Identification internationale :
IBAN : FR76 30003 03080 00020027011 09
BIC-ADRESSE SWIFT : SOGEFRPP

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Published by Karl Rademacher on August 26, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 27, Issue 27 Stories

Mask of the Kravyads

By Jay Requard

They walked in, dusty men in dusty black armor.

Deepti drew a sharp breath as one of the temple’s guard stepped in front of the pair of sellswords, asking for the weapons belted around their waists. They answered with quick and quiet nods, handing over their swords before resuming the march down the chamber’s long blue runner. Light from the great braziers in the center of the long floor cut their shadows onto the mural-walls, briefly obscuring chiseled scenes of devas at work in the world. Warrior gods fought demons as lotus-birthed goddesses carved rivers into the land, and that the center of these many panels raised one from the rest, a dark lady who held the moon and the stars in her hands.

“So here they are… bloody men who feed themselves on bloody money.” Preem sighed greatly on his cushion, the wrinkles on his face and body stark in the gentle light of the lamps set on their dining table. “What a world I live in.”

Seated at the low table, Deepti would have normally focused on the serenity of her deity as she ate, but tonight was different. The table had not been prepared yet and her attention was on the men walking her way. “We can only judge them based on what they do, Father, not how they look,” she reminded, an old axiom her mother used to bother her with. “Let’s let them eat and speak before a decision is made.”

“Just like your mother,” he replied with a forced smile. “I wish she was here now. She’d handle them better.”

Their chatter died when the two warriors approached the other side of the table. The shortest of the pair, a white man from the west with dull brown eyes and gray hair, pressed his hands together in the customary greeting of her people. “I bow to your forms.” he said in Suti, Deepti’s native tongue. “May we sit, uncle?”

Preem looked at the man, surprised by such deference. “Please do. Thank you for coming. I imagine you trip must have been long.”

“We heard the call in the market of Marthi and came quickly when we heard few wanted the job,” said the first man. “Opportunity are where opportunity offers themselves, after all.”

They plopped onto the cushions on the other side of the table, the iron parts of their armor clanking. It was in this blur of their movements that Deepti noticed something different about the second sellsword. Even in the dimness his skin was dark, a sandy brown color common to her people. His narrow face and aquiline nose defined a rugged handsomeness framed in a shag of black hair, the luster hidden beneath the grit of the road.

“Excuse me,” she called to him, keenly interested. “Sir, are you a Sutian?”

The man looked at her in surprise, as if he had not expected to be addressed. He checked with his superior, who gave a quick nod. “I am,” he said, clearing his throat.

Deepti turned to her father, a quick grin formed. “What a wonderful surprise.”

“Pardon me, young man, but of what caste are you?” Preem asked. “What’s your name?”

The young sellsword straightened on his seat. “My name is Jishnu. I am a Kshatri.”

“A Kshatri,” Preem said, impressed. “This does change things.”

“It’s a good thing I brought him then,” said his superior. “While I understand the need for introductions, could we perhaps do so while we eat? Thumbs and I are famished from the road, and unlike the rest of our company we have not had time to supper.”

“Please. We were waiting for you anyway,” said Deepti, waving for one of the temple’s servants. “And what is your name, sir?”

The white warrior bowed. “I’m the Captain of The Grinders Sellsword Company. That will do for now.”

Platters of steaming rice, roasted vegetables, and goat braised in hot spices were served alongside a fresh pot of black tea, a grand feast the four consumed in awkward quiet. Deepti studied the two as they ate, taking measure of their manners. Jishnu picked at his food while the Captain gorged himself, both supping fully but in a practice method allowing for them to remain clean. There was a discipline to them, a singular focus targeted to finishing the meal.

The Captain wiped his chin with the back of his hand minutes later. His shaggy white hair framed his face, a wide field populated by a broken nose and sunburnt cheeks. The rough whiskers of a mustache fed into a cruel scar on his upper lip. “You two seemed so surprised with Thumbs here. Why is that?”

“Why do you keep calling him that?” Preem asked. “Why not his name?”

The Captain nudged his subordinate in the arm. “Tell him, my son.”

“It’s a nickname,” Jishnu said simply, his head lowered at Preem in reverence. “All Grinders have nicknames, Preemji.”

“And how did you get yours?” Preem pressed.

Jishnu raised his right hand, his fingers splayed apart. Deepti stifled a gasp when she saw a smaller sixth digit grown on the outside of his natural thumb. Twisted, it connected to the original finger by a fork webbed in flesh. “A birth defect,” he explained.

“I am surprised I did not notice when we first met. Did you, Deepti?” he asked his daughter.

“No,” she said, puzzled that she had missed such a crucial detail. The surprise in her voice must have troubled Jishnu, who lowered his hand back beneath the table. “Does it hurt, sir?”

“No, lady,” he said, weary. “It is what it is.”

She cocked her head to the side, mouth opened before her father interrupted. “Pardon me for prying, but how does a man such as you fall into such a different profession? Surely you could have been a guard for your homeland’s king.”

“Indeed, I could have. My father is a guardsman for the king of Srijian while my grandfather is an elder of its capital, Shiri. They were sellswords first, however, and gained their education in warfare in other lands. I’m doing as they did.”

Preem sipped some tea. “Duty to the family, adherence to tradition? Not the most conventional way, but then it has never been a conventional world.”

“Thumbs is my very best.” The Captain clapped his second on the shoulder. “He is a credit to the people of the Sixteen Kingdoms.”

“And many more, I should think.” Preem set his teacup on the ground beside his cushion. “Gentlemen, perhaps it is time we spoke to the terms of your employment?” He looked to Deepti and nodded.

She lifted a black box onto her silken lap, the weight heavy. “Gentlemen,” she said, “This is the Mask of the Kravyads.”

The eyes of the two men roamed within the box as she opened the lid, and a change come over both of them. Deepti followed the Captain’s eyes first, disappointed by their lustful gleam. Jishnu, on the other hand, stared at the damnable object in curiosity, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Very pretty,” said The Captain, “but what is a kravyad, if I may ask?”

Preem spoke. “It’s a type of rakshasa, a spirit of the underworld. This mask allows one to view their realm through which the wearer learns secrets best left hidden. This temple has guarded this item since it was first brought here centuries ago, where our order guarded until a remedy could be found for its evil—until now.”

“What happened?” the Captain inquired. “The toll must be great for you to give up your duty.”

Deepti spoke before her father could answer. “Kravyads entered the temple.”

“Here?” Jishnu asked, aghast. “But they are beings of hell. The holiness of this place should hold them back.”

“That was our hope,” Preem answered, his age shown in a shuddering breath. “The Goddess Devi sees it differently.”

The Captain spoke. “So why have you not destroyed the mask already?”

“We tried.” Preem brushed one of his gray dreadlocks from his sunken cheek. “We had blacksmiths try to melt it in their crucibles, but the spirits claimed them in their forges. We tried throwing it into the river Vallabha, only to have its goddess spit it back out. We tried so many things–”

“And lost others who tried to stand against the mask’s power,” Deepti said. Her father placed a hand over hers. “The only choice we have now is to take it to the holy fire at the temple of Agni. Nothing burns hotter.”

“So you want us to run protection on the way down,” the Captain guessed.

“In essence,” Preem acknowledged in a slight nod. “But there is more. You must take a representative of the temple with you. It is the only way the rishis at Agni’s Temple will allow entrance to the fire.”

“Who will we be taking?” Jishnu asked.

“Me,” said Deepti.

“Absolutely not,” said Jishnu immediately.

“Pardon?”

Her question caught Jishnu. He dithered for a moment before continuing. “Captain, Preemji, this mission is no place for holy ones, especially a rishika. The dangers of the road–”

“Pardon me, sir.” The strength of her voice drew the men’s attention back to her. “I am well versed in contending with the kravyads. Just because I am a woman doesn’t mean I am weak.”

“This has nothing to do with it,” said Jishnu.

“Then what does?”

Jishnu gaped back at her, lost for words.

She pressed, not letting him find them. “No others in this temple are allowed to leave without breaking their vows of silence and meditation, or they are too old. I am neither. Think what you want, but I am quite able to take care of myself. So what reasons will you come up with now?”

The Captain snickered. “Well, Thumbs?”

Jishnu looked away, dejected. “Your orders, sir.”

The Captain patted his charge on the shoulder and looked to Preem. “We accept. Now, to our price.”

“Yes, of course.” Deepti nodded, satisfied with her victory. Yet as she observed Jishnu’s placid bearing, the satisfaction ebbed.

He was not angry. He was worried.

#

Wagon wheels ground to a halt, jerking Deepti slightly as the men around her broke in an explosion of motion. Before she had even risen to her feet the Grinders had flooded out of the cramped wooden rectangle and converged on the campsite. With the wagons drawn and the horses still set on the yokes in case they needed to flee, the tension of the ride slowly settled with the shrinking sunlight. Deepti followed along behind a few stragglers, thankful for the chance to stand on her own feet, though they offered little comfort. Her pack hung like a great stone from her bare shoulders, the weight of the mask and its box a constant burden.

One of the Grinders, a young man from the kingdoms of the faraway west, approached. “My lady, can I help you to a spot to set down?”

She offered a nervous smile. “Marl, yes? I think you were riding in the same wagon as I on the first day.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said, nodding his helmeted head. “The Captain assigned me to you for the night. Is there anything you need carried or…”

“No,” she said. “Just directions to where I should sleep.”

“Let’s go talk to the Captain about it.”

Deepti let him lead her through the camp. The sellswords had already gathered wood for a bonfire fire while others prepared salted meats for roasting. Some foraged for plants to eat and water to boil, and in the center of the ordered mess sat the Captain, who waited before the unlit fire with his hands in his lap. Jishnu sat next to him, striking a shard of flint against the iron blade of his sword.

“Evening, my lady,” greeted the Captain. “I wondered where you had gotten off to. Have you found your tent for the night?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I can sleep without one, if need be. You truly do not have to accommodate me more than you do your own men.”

“My men have weathered worse than the stars and the wind. And it might rain tonight,” The Captain said, glancing at the clouded skies. “We’ll see if one is willing to lend his lean-to again.”

“She can use mine,” Jishnu said. “I probably won’t sleep anyway.”

“I’ll take first watch too,” Marl volunteered. “No need for you to stay up alone, Thumbs.”

Jishnu grunted in reply, focused on the flint and the fuel before him.

“Well, that’s that then.” The Captain rubbed his hands together. “Time for supper. I’ll go see how Frog is doing with the meat.”

“Follow me, my lady,” Marl said to Deepti.

They stopped at an open spot near one of the wagons. The mask and its box struck the ground in a dull thud as Deepti let the bag slip from her shoulders. Lost in the sound of marching feet and foreign voices, she pulled the pins holding her long braid in its bun, allowing the long rope of hair to fall down her back.

“What’s wrong?” Marl asked.

She shrugged her shoulders and rolled her head about her neck, working out the day’s soreness. “Nothing. At least nothing worth talking about.”

“Oh, come now.” Marl lifted his helmet to free his flaxen hair. “You aren’t sure about us.” He walked to the mound of packs piled near the wagon’s rear wheel. “And that goes double for Thumbs. That is a pun, if I think too hard on it.”

She shook her head quickly. “A sellsword is no occupation for a man of his birth, no matter if he is of a low house or not. I venture I could say the same for all of you.”

“A big pronouncement for a girl who never lived in her own filth.” Marl pulled a large blanket and a loop of gathered twine attached to a wooden stake from a pack, most likely Jishnu’s. He tied one end of the line to one of the main tacks set in the rail of the wagon, stretching it until he found the spot where he hammered the stake into the earth. He hung the blanket over the line to finish the lean-to. “The world is very different. The real one outside of your walls, that is.”

She understood his point. “Still.”

Marl gathered his spear and shield. “In my country we don’t have this idea about predetermined duty. If a man wants to fight he fights, if he wants to farm he farms. I’ll tell you this, though—Grinders are very good at what they do.”

“I hope so.”

Deepti and the westerner talked until the call for supper. The sun sank hills of shadow and silence as the sellswords gathered around their bonfire to eat, shields and spears replaced with tin bowls and spoons. Boiled chicken and overcooked rice mixed with dandelions made their meal for a night, a chewy stew with too much salt and pepper for her test. She struggled through the meal, taking small sips of the broth at a time and listening to the conversations going on around her. Men of different hues and origins spoke to each other in a mishmash of languages. Civilized and intelligent, they did not behave in the ways her father had taught her to expect of hardened warriors. They were content, seemingly unburdened by whatever they had done in the past or the possibility death waited for them beyond the rise in the road. She sat there quietly, chin rested on her knees as she watched, intrigued and confounded.

Marl led her back to her tent after dinner as the Grinders went to their places for the night. Some guarded the wagons while others dozed in their small tents until their turn at watch. Deepti settled in her own little shelter, restless as she fought to find a comfortable position on the hard ground.

Her attention turned to the mask. Pulling the box out of her knapsack, she rested it on her stomach. Tapping the painted wood with her nails, the image of a woman wearing the mask played in the depths of her memory, held to a stone floor by a pair of shadows. The spirits ravaged their victim.

A laugh broke through the horror.

Jishnu’s shoulders bounced while Marl whispered to him as they tended to the bonfire. Deepti crawled off her blanket and stood, dusting the front of her blue sari. Marl saw her rise, waving her over to join them.

“Having trouble sleeping?” he asked when she approached.

“I’m not used to the ground,” Deepti said.

“It’s better to rest on your side than your back,” said Jishnu. “You can sit down, if you like.”

She knelt beside him. “Aren’t you two tired?”

“Never.” Jishnu poked at the fire’s base with the point of his sword. The skin of a burning log cracked into fissures. “No man affords it when his brothers trust him with their sleep.”

“Speak for yourself, braggart,” Marl said. “Just because there’s a pretty lady present doesn’t mean you have to spin lies.”

Jishnu shot Marl a dire glare, only to get a wink in return.

“Don’t worry about him,” Marl told Deepti. “A calf trying to be a bull.”

“You all puzzle me.” She motioned at the camp around them. “I don’t understand how men can live in such a manner. Marching, fighting, never home or in a place of peace—how do you sustain this?”

“We just do,” Marl replied. “I was a farmer’s son who wanted more, and Thumbs is doing as his father’s father did, preparing for his duty. What is hard to understand about that?”

“Forgive me,” said Deepti, “but in my temple we are taught that lives should be lived in accordance to dharma. If a man’s dharma makes him a soldier, he should be a soldier, just like if a woman is meant to be a rishi, she should go into the mountains and spend time in meditation. But this is not what my father taught me of sellswords.”

Jishnu cracked a smile, his teeth white. “What did he say? That we are savage men hungry for spoil?”

Deepti felt her face flush. “Well, yes.”

“We are, on our worst days,” Jishnu said, “But who isn’t? We suffer with homelessness and violence, but at least we have a family. And if what you learned in the temple was true then how do you know that the entire world isn’t a temple in itself? What if we are living our dharma?”

“But what if you aren’t?” she asked.

He brooded on the question. “To have lived these small moments of glory, joy, anger, love and hate, will be worthy to me. As for devas and dharma… that’s their business.”

A growl came from the woods.

Jishnu shot to his feet. “What was that?”

Deepti stared into the darkness on the other side of the flames, to a gap where two of the Grinder’s wagons backed right up to the edge of the forest. She rose up, her hands trembling. “They’re here.”

“Grinders, to me,” shouted Jishnu. Marl banged his spear’s shaft against the bronze face of his shield. Tents were torn to the side as men arose, armed as they ran toward the fire. They converged in a tight circle around the blaze, their shields joined together in an overlapping wall.

“Get Deepti in the center,” The Captain ordered, appearing out of the mass. “Spears-In-A-Diamond, eyes forward.”

The Grinders flowed from their loose ring into four uneven wedges connected at the corners. Deepti found herself gently pulled and pushed toward the center of their formation, near the fire and at the back of their numbers. She spotted Jishnu through the shifting bodies, himself set at the point facing the forest.

The growls in the darkness grew in volume, no longer one but two, and then three. Above the crackle of the fire, the wind in the trees, came a padding—a heavy, slow padding.

A great cat burst from the shadows, made of dull iron and striped with red light. Its maw opened in a bellowing roar, full of fire and smoke to match its horrid eyes. Powerful muscles twitched in its massive shoulders as the kravyad charged, a storm of claws and teeth. The Grinders held. Spears went out, stabbing the beast in the sides. The points knocked and skidded off the plating of its hips and neck, unable to pierce the seams.

A second kravyad bounded out of the shadows, made of black and brown granite. It stalked toward Deepti’s lean-to.

“The mask,” Deepti said. “Jishnu, the mask!”

The Captain called. “Thumbs, Break point!”

The Grinders around Jishnu, five men in total, stepped in perfect unison with him as he headed toward the tent, closed tight in an uneven shield wall.

“Form delta,” the Captain shouted.

The men closed the gap Jishnu’s detachment had created in time to accept another charge from the iron kravyad. The monster leapt high, forcing them to lift their shields. Deepti dodged to the side, narrowly missing the fire as the iron kravyad rolled atop the roof of domed bronze. The Grinders let the monster sink through a gap, stabbing and banging against its iron flanks. Startled, it squirmed to its feet and bolted back into the woods.

Deepti huddled between the sellswords and the fire. The screams of her mother emerged from the noisy chaos around her, no longer a faint echo recalled from the dark and dusty corners of her mind. Blood flowed down brown cheeks as broken nails probed past the eyeholes of a copper mask. She fought for breath. On instinct, she looked to her right.

A third kravyad, skinned in bronze, perched between two wagons. The beast watched Jishnu tear at Deepti’s lean-to in search of the box, finding it as he tossed the tent aside. His brothers guarded his right flank from the granite kravyad, who swiped at them with its claws.

The bronze kravyad closed the distance in the blink of an eye. Jishnu went down, pushing and stabbing to keep its jaws from his neck.

“Move to the wagons,” The Captain ordered. A few Grinders broke away from the main formation at some point in the fray, working to set the horses.

Deepti couldn’t believe her ears. They were going to leave him.

They were going to leave the mask.

Anger, cold and grim, rose from the place she kept the darkness of the past. Focus returned, and she went inside herself to find her atman, the quintessence the gods imbued in all things.

The bonfire flared high beside her, and above the blaze a wheel formed in her mind’s eye. A mandala made of three shifting rings ground in opposite directions. The center ring rolled clockwise while the next one went counter to it. The outermost ring bobbed back and forth.

The hum of her body drew the heat from the friction between those circles, and from the center emerged the fanged mouth of a dragon, his great tongue writhing in the air. Agni, the god of fire and sacrifice, breathed his power into Deepti.

“Move,” she bellowed in a voice both hers yet not hers either. The sellswords stopped in surprise at the order and stepped aside, compelled by something beyond mortal reckoning.

A grim mantra parted Deepti’s lips in a harsh whisper, repeating over and over again. The dragon’s flame at the center of the mandala rose in a white hot needle, its point narrowing and sharpening until it gleamed like a honed arrowhead.

The mantra ended.

Flames shot from the bonfire in a perfect stream, striking the bronze kravyad atop of Jishnu. It rolled away with a loud screech, its flank red hot and sagging. The two remaining kravyads darted for the woods as more fiery tentacles slithered from the bonfire to chase them. Deepti walked with her conjurings as they burnt lines into the trampled grass and dirt, her fingers pointed at the beasts to direct their destructions.

She reached Jishnu, who lay curled in a tight ball to protect himself from the flames. “Jishnu, get up,” she whispered, careful not to frighten him.

Jishnu looked up, squinting in the smoke. He took her offered hand, and a quick jerk lifted him to his feet. “You’re a mantrik,” he said through his coughing. He tucked the box under his arm.

“When I need to be.” Deepti pulled him to one of the five wagons ready to escape to the highway.

#

The convoy rumbled down the dirt highway at a brisk pace, the wheels clattering across the dips and pits in the road. Still armed with their spears and shields, the Grinders lined the sides of the wooden boxes, keeping watch for the dread beasts they knew prowled beyond the trees and brush. Morning arrived as the emerging sun brightened a cloudless sky from black to bronze. Seated in the corner beside Jishnu, Deepti leaned against their section of wall and watched the day arise.

“Why didn’t tell us you were a mantrik?” he asked.

She chewed the inside of her lip, searching for the right words. “My father and I thought it best not to say anything. I only use my power in the line of duty. I had hoped it would not be required.”

“I knew you were trouble the moment I laid my eyes on you.”

Deepti cracked a grin. “Scared of the little temple girl now?”

“What happened to your mother?” he asked, to the point.

The sudden question caught her. “What makes you think something happened?”

“I know sorrow, Deepti. I’ve seen enough of it to know its face.”

She sighed in resignation. “My mother was one of Sutia’s greatest mantriks, though no one knew save the kings and queens who called in secret. She liked her peace and quiet with my father. He was always better at helping others in alms and devotion. All she wanted to do in this life was neutralize the mask and turn it to good works.”

“She tried to destroy it,” Jishnu guessed.

“She tried everything. Every mantra and ritual she knew, but none of it worked. She put the mask on one day, thinking she could infect it from within with Devi’s holiness.” A tremor worked out of her chest, a breath of sadness. “That was the first time the kravyads entered the temple. People started dying that night.”

“And they took her first.” Jishnu looked to her, lips pressed in a line of sadness. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, Thumbs,” called one of the Grinders, a short man with dark brown skin.

“What is it, Frog?” Jishnu asked.

“Look.” Frog pointed off behind Deepti and Jishnu. The two rose on the wagon bed and looked past the driver. Hills of green kusa lowered in gentle slopes to a white sand coast. At the edge of the ocean stood a sprawling city, its protective wall a long line of beige. The three towers of Karish’s royal palace gleamed like silver in the fresh morning, their spires rising from the peninsula they had been built upon in ancient times.

Further up the coast to the west lay a smaller structure overlooking the beach, a great stone beehive built on the top of a hillock. “That is Agni’s Temple,” said Deepti.

Jishnu patted the Grinder driving their wagon. “Did you hear her, Wood?”

“Aye, Thumbs,” said the driver.

Frog spoke again. “Looks like nobody dies to–” Cut off by a loud roar, the sellsword screamed as the iron kravyad climbed up the back of the wagon. It clamped its jaws on his shoulder and ripped him from the carriage. Before others could grab Frog’s feet he was already yards away, smothered beneath the bulk of his killer.

Jishnu ripped his sword from its scabbard. “Stop the wagon, Wood! Stop!”

“Look,” cried another of his comrades. Out of the wooded hills, where the forests met the plain, six more kravyads sprinted toward the convoy.

“By Naraka.” Jishnu squatted beside the wagon wall near Deepti, braced in the corner. “Wood, keep those horses moving! Someone signal the other wagons!”

One of the Grinders retrieved a horn from his pack and a clear note rang across the fields. The convoy broke their ordered line and went off the road, each aimed for the temple near the sea.

The kravyads closed the distance, the fire in their mouths bright, even in the sunny morning.

“Do you have another mantra?” Jishnu asked Deepti.

The wheels of the wagon thudded in a depression hidden in the grass, jolting her off balance. Somehow still on his feet, Jishnu grabbed her arm and lifted her to one of the wagon’s sides.

“I don’t have a torch,” she shouted, her bruised arms hooked on the wagon’s wall. Men scrambled for their weapons in a mess of bodies and limbs, the situation made worse by their crowding.

“Think of something,” Jishnu pleaded as someone passed him a spear.

A strange memory came to Deepti then, a mantra her father used to chant over her at bedtime after he told her stories. In one particular the war-god Asdra had saved Devi from a demon come to eat the everlasting twins in her belly, the children grew into the first man and woman. The mantra was the dancing song she had used to calm her wild husband.

She touched Jishnu’s shoulder. “Do you have a bow?” she asked.

“Why?”

“Do you?”

Jishnu furrowed his brow. “Lucky, hand me Frog’s bow and quiver.” The sellsword next to them handed him a bamboo bow and a quiver filled with a handful of arrows. He slung the quiver over his shoulder. “What now?”

Deepti focused inward. She envisioned a mandala on the floor in the center of the wagon, its three cobalt rings smooth as glass and spinning together, unified and set. “Stand up, Jishnu, and defend us.” He did as he was told, an arrow nocked on his bowstring. In a moment she was gone from the physical world.

The mantra flowed from her mouth. The three rings slid along each other at different paces, never once dragging or slowing. Inside the center ring danced two figures, one armed with a sword and the other a scarf, a god and goddess. He swung his blade at unseen foes while she steadied the sway of his body with hers, two partners eased by each other’s steps in a dance that was not just a dance, but the cycle of the universe itself.

Deepti laid a hand on Jishnu’s ankle. Her fingers radiated a faint light.

Jishnu found his footing. His swayed with the shaking of the wagon, perfectly balanced. “How?”

She squeezed his ankle to reassure him. “Just fight.”

Jishnu raised the bow, drawing back the string with the pull of a skilled archer. “Keep the damned things from the flanks, men,” he said. He loosed a shaft when the granite kravyad climbed the back of their wagon. The iron arrow chipped its eye. The Grinders met it with their spears, thrusting at its face and neck until the kravyad screeched and bounded away.

Deepti looked to the other wagons. The two to her right remained un-harried, but the other pair to the left rattled down the slopes toward Agni’s temple, followed closely by five kravyads. In the nearest wagon stood one man, his spear out and his shield high. Though his words were lost on wind in her ears, she recognized the Captain.

She pulled on Jishnu, and without any words he twisted to his left. A kravyad made of wood jumped for the Captain, and his arrow met the side of its head. The beast fell in the grasses as its partner stayed alongside the far wagon-wheel, its body obscured.

“Captain!” Jishnu drew his third arrow. “Get down!”

The Captain stumbled forward in time to move out of the bronze kravyad’s ascent. The Grinders in the wagon used their shields to shovel the beast out.

“How far, Wood?” Jishnu shouted.

“Half a mile,” the wagon’s driver answered.

“Faster,” Jishnu said. His next shaft snapped out with a hard twang. The arrow went wide of the bronze kravyad squatted in the grass, and his balance faltered. Deepti ceased whispering, shouting the words of the mantra to stave off the burn racking every nerve of her body as she clung to his leg.

“Watch out,” screamed the driver. “To the left!”

The farthest wagon on the left flipped, spilling its occupants and shattering into a mass of splintered wood. Bodies littered the field alongside the dead draft horses, which were quickly pounced upon by the kravyads.

“Do we stop, Thumbs?” asked the driver.

Deepti glanced to Jishnu, and her mantra paused when she saw his hopeless stare.

He seethed as the wind whipped his black hair around his face. “How far?”

“Another minute,” said Wood.

The box holding the mask slid onto his foot when the wheels hit another bump, drawing away his attention. She wished in that moment she could have thrown the mask out of the wagon, let the damned kravyads have it, just to end his suffering—but she had her duty, her dharma, and he had his mission.

“Don’t stop,” Jishnu said. His cold expression failed to hide his despair. “Just keep going.”

#

Ornate columns held up the great dome of polished bronze, the underside stained black from centuries of smoke billowing off the ring of fire set in the chamber’s center. Amid the flames a polished effigy towered, a single piece of red agate shaped into a deva with the body of a serpent, four powerful arms, and the torso and head of a man. In his hands he held a torch, a conch shell, and a pair of golden axes. A five-tiered crown made of precious gems sparkled in the light of the blaze around him, and from the god’s back sprouted two great reptilian wings, webbed and glossy.

Deepti stared at the statue of Agni, the god of fire and sacrifice, hoping he was ready to end her misery. She clutched the box to her chest, lost in thoughts that drowned out the sound of the men behind her as they worked to bar the large double doors of the temple. The Grinders had set their line at the entrance, braced against the portal while the rishis and their scribes busied to find heavier objects to help blockade their home. Men heaved as they pressed their shields into the doors, holding back the kravyads scratching on the other side.

An older priest named Prasad approached. “We’re ready, Sree Deepti.”

She mustered a smile. “Of course.” The mask seemed to suck away the warmth of the room when she opened the box. The forged face of a tiger glimmered in a shade of dull, muddy orange. Deepti lifted it out of its container, surprised by its lightness as she laid the box at her feet. “No need for ceremony, Prasadji?”

“Such a foul thing deserves none,” he said.

Deepti stepped toward the ring of fire. A thunderous bang behind her broke her concentration. The doors cracked open and three heavy paws poked through the gap. Spears thrust at them as the Grinders pressed into each other to strengthen the shield wall.

“Quickly,” said Prasad, “Throw it into the fire!”

Deepti tossed the mask onto the bed of coals. The flames licked at the cheeks and forehead of the bestial face. From the mouth-hole passed a tongue of flame so high she thought it would melt the lips, but to no avail. The mask simply stared back, defiant on a sea of hot red.

Deepti turned to Prasad. “Why isn’t it melting?”

He shivered, voice trembling. “I-I don’t know. Agni’s holy flames should destroy such a foulness.”

The doors of the temple burst open, flung wide as the seven kravyads rolled atop each other into the holy sanctuary. Sellswords fell to the floor, their faces and breastplates sliced upon by rending claws.

The Captain called over the roars. “Cover the mask!”

From the din of battle rose Jishnu. His helmet torn away, blood sluiced from a cut on his shoulder. He shoved his way to Deepti, lips peeled back in a snarl, eyes set as if nothing—no man or beast—would stop him from getting to her and the mask.

“”You’re bleeding,” Deepti cried, horrified by the wound on his arm.

“No time.” He looked ahead to the fire, and Deepti followed his confused glare. The outer edges of the mask had sunken into the coals, making it seem as if the metal had started to melt.

Deepti knew better. “It’s not working.”

Snarling in defiance, Jishnu grabbed Prasad by the sacred cord hung around his body and jerked him close. “Well, rishi?”

“There’s still a way.” Prasad wrenched his vestment out of Jishnu’s hand and leapt over the fiery ring, a hand out to grab Agni’s arm that held the dragon-god’s holy torch. Hanging his entire body from the agate limb, he whined a prayer before a hidden joint in the statue loosed. The arm swung down, its hinge screeching. Stone panels around the statue’s base sank into a small staircase.

“Go,” he bade. “Agni’s True Flame waits below. If it can’t destroy the mask, nothing will!”

“Tremendous,” grunted Jishnu. He stabbed the point of his sword into the mask’s mouth, levering it off the burning coals.

At that moment the iron kravyad appeared, charging for Jishnu. It collided with him, knocking him down the hidden stair. The mask fell off his blade, skipping down the steps with a series of loud pings. Deepti went after them both.

She reached the first landing on the stair and found Jishnu sprawled on the platform. Stone ground against stone above her, and the sound of the battle above them died as the entrance of the secret stair shut.

#

Deepti sat on the landing and fought to catch her breath, bathed in the warmth of the air and the silence. She listened for any sound from above, any indication of the battle and the fate of the men who had shepherded her to the temple.

“Jishnu?” she whispered. “Are you all right?”

“My shoulder stings.”

“Let me see,” she asked.

His arm fell across her lap. Deepti pressed her fingers on the cut on his shoulder. Squinting against the low light, she ran her finger across the shallow gully. A minor wound, she left it alone. “It’s really not that bad.”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“What do you mean?” Deepti asked.

“My brothers,” he said. “They’re all upstairs, dead and done. All for that damned mask.”

She looked down the steps to where the mask rested, undamaged. Beyond the worry of destroying it, the weight of the profane object had never been heavier. The servants of the temple, The Grinders, her mother—so many taken, so many lost to its horrid evil. Deepti stood, brushed off the front of her ruined sari, and combed her disheveled hair from her ears.

“Then let’s finish it for them.” She went down a few steps and retrieved the mask. Jishnu came close behind, sticking his sword in his belt.

The heat below grew with every step until sweat plastered the thin cotton of Deepti’s dress to her body and chaffed the inside of her thighs. For a time it seemed the gloom might go on forever, but soon it ebbed against a light, one bright and orange-red. A square doorway opened at the bottom of the stair, carved from the black rock.

In the center of a great chamber stood a perfect dome of white marble, fitted with wooden stairs that started at its base and went around to a wide platform at the top. In the center of the platform lay a basin holding a great fire, brighter than any Deepti had ever seen. Almost pure white in color, the flames licked the ceiling.

“Amazing,” said Jishnu. “This must be Agni’s Flame.”

“My father told me stories of it when I was little,” Deepti said. The air, once warm and pleasant, now choked in a dry staleness. “Agni’s Flame was the first fire in the world, lit by the god’s tear after the floodwaters receded and life sprang from death again. We’re looking at something that was here at the beginning of this world, before the ages.”

“Do you believe that?” Jishnu asked.

Deepti held tight to the mask, fingers aching from the pressure. “I hope I do.”

The climb up the steps went quickly enough, though by the time Deepti ascended to the platform the heat had grown to an indescribable misery, as if she walked beneath the hot sun itself.

“Throw it in,” said Jishnu when they reached the holy flame. “Be done with it.”

Deepti raised the mask up to toss it into the inferno when she caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye. In the doorway of the chamber came a shadow.

“Look,” she said, pointing.

A miasma conquered the doorway. From the dark came the sound of heavy paws thudding on stone, but more than that, the gentle pat of bare feet. A hand broke the semi-solid membrane, sending ripples across the ebon surface.

A woman emerged, dressed in a tattered but familiar sari much like Deepti’s. Her pallid brown skin was ashen in the light, and the dark circles under her eyes were the color of charcoal. Unkempt black hair bordered broad face, which would have been considered beautiful if not for her flaming eyes. Evil infested those red irises, and her burnt lips parted to reveal a harsh glow within her mouth.

The iron and bronze kravyads followed behind this apparition, their faces scarred and marked from battle.

Deepti’s breath caught in her chest. Her legs went out from under her, leaving her hung on the wooden rail around the platform.

“What is this devilry?” Jishnu demanded to know, his sword drawn.

Deepti tried to pull herself to her feet. “It’s my mother.”

The apparition smiled, her broken teeth stained. “Deepti. Still so pretty.” She walked to the foot of the dome’s stair, her guards beside her. Her movements were too smooth for a human woman, sleek and supple like a feline.

“Damn you.” Deepti regained her balance as shock gave way to anger. “You dare take her form…”

“Of course I dare.” The apparition ran her nails across the thick necks of the kravyads at her flanks, and the three slowly made their way up the stairs. “But that doesn’t matter, my little love. What matters is the choice you make right now.”

“Be plain, demon,” Jishnu said.

“Warrior, be quiet right now and let the women talk.” She stared up with those eyes, hatred and lust in her gaze. “I want that mask, Deepti. My master needs it for what is to come in the next age.”

“You’ll not have it,” Deepti promised. She let the mask fall into Agni’s Tear. It clanged against the basin, and the fire erupted in a great roar. The force of the blast nearly blew her over the rail. The kravyads’ wails twisted her stomach, and inside her head a thousand shards of glass sliced at her mind. Her vision cleared in time to see the ruin the divine fire had wrought.

No longer resting at the bottom of the bowl, the mask floated in the midst of the inferno, spinning slowly on an unseen axis. One of the forged ears, once pointed and etched with chiseled stripes, had reduced to a bubbling mass of burnt copper. The edges of the jaw, once sharp and even, distended as the metal softened.

Hope sprang anew.

“It’s working,” Deepti cried.

“Then hope it works quickly!” Jishnu waited for the two kravyads still climbing the steps. Their claws tore ruts into the wooden stair, the smoke from their mouths sulfur-yellow.

Deepti grabbed her head, her sudden excitement replaced with fresh terror. Her focus resettled on the mask, and an idea entered. “Give me your sword.”

“I need it,” he said, crouched and ready to fight.

“Just give it to me!” She took his short blade and stuck it into the fire, a mantra on her lips. Worried the iron would melt before she finished, she forced the image of the three rings before they naturally came, letting them gain their own colors as they waited at the other end of the sword. Purples, blues, and gray mixed together in the swirling rings, which lay still until she urged them to move. The center ring spun fast while the middle and outer ring went at their own paces in opposite directions. The words came, and from the void in the mandala’s center flowed liquid gold. It blended into the sword’s edges and flats, snaking around like a serpent over rock.

“By Asdra,” said Jishnu.

The blade of his sword, once gray iron, shone with a golden luster. Deepti handed it to him and dropped to her knees, exhausted by her work. “Go,” she ordered, barely able to speak. “Stop them.”

The two kravyads met Jishnu as they bounded to the top of the steps. The iron kravyad dove for the sellsword, only to be met with a slash that ripped its jaw from its head. Black blood pulsed from the wound as the beast buckled in pain, its gore stinking of bile. Metal gave away and melted like wax.

Jishnu fought with the bronze kravyad, dodging away as the ferocious cat swiped at him. The two danced around each other, lashing out with paw and sword until Jishnu found himself in one of the tight corners of the platform’s fencing.

The bronze kravyad leapt. Jishnu ducked low, slashing upward across his enemy’s belly. Black blood sprayed as the spirit flew over the barricade.

“Very valiant.” The apparition of Deepti’s mother stood at the top of the stair. “But enough games.”

Bellowing, Jishnu charged at her. The apparition raised her hand up at him and flicked her fingers to the side, and suddenly he shot to the right. He collided with the wall on the far side of the chamber, falling like a fly swatted from the air.

Deepti crawled to the edge of the platform. Jishnu lay on floor, bloodied and concussed.

“It’s almost over, my little love.”

She rolled to her back and found the apparition standing over her, a slight frown on a ghoulish face.

“You fought so very well,” the apparition said. “You mortals try so hard.”

Deepti glared at the corruption of her mother’s form, and then past her to the mask floating above the basin. The ears had melted away, the edges burnt black, and the jaw distended until the mouth was a wide chasm. Copper dripped into the flame.

If only the mask was closer.

“This could have been easier,” the apparition continued. “My lord would have come for the mask at some point, entering your little temple without effort, no harm done. So much suffering could have been avoided.”

“It is my dharma to stop evil. That mask, you, your god—you deserve destruction.”

“That’s one way of looking at it, or maybe dharma swings both ways.” The apparition went for the mask. “Not that it matters.”

There were no mantras left, no warrior to save her, and as Deepti watched the apparition slowly reach for the mask reality set in:

If only the mask was closer.

“Not for us,” Deepti said, and she surged to her feet. Her arms wrapped around the apparition, the two fell on the mask, plunging it deeper into the fire. The ghost beneath her screamed, but Deepti didn’t hear it over her own wail. The flames burnt the flesh away from her arms and hands, exposing the bones as the world disappeared in a flash of white.

THE END

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Published by Karl Rademacher on August 23, 2015. This item is listed in Introductions, Issue 27, Issue 27 Poetry

Introduction to Issue 27 Poetry

by John C. Mannone

Thank you for reading Issue 27. We hope you will delight in the work published here. I’ll forego my usual introduction, but there I have striven to arrange these poems for the maximum collective enjoyment:

• Patricia Williams (Lorca’s Duende)
• Marge Simon (Another Place)
• Sandi Leibowitz (The Man Who Loved a Poem)
• Lauren McBride (Always Wet and Humid Here)
• Deborah Rocheleau (Cryonics)
• Sonali Roy (The Dog)
• WC Roberts (Is Anybody Out There?)

There is no Featured Poet this month, but there will be a featured craft lecture on translations.

As some of you might know, we had been seeking submissions for a special issue on speculative poetry in translation. While that is slowly, but surely coming together, I want to make speculative poetry in translation a regular feature in Silver Blade, which will also raise awareness of our project and encourage submissions to the project in a wide variety of languages.

Together with the poem in both languages, we seek translators’ notes (of any length). Ideally, we would enjoy audio recordings in the native tongue as well (and maybe in English, too).

Of course, there might be copyrights to deal with, and we would expect our contributors to acquire all permissions necessary prior to submission, but there is also a large body of literature published before 1923 that might qualify to be in the public domain.

Please click here for a discussion of some of the challenges in translating poetry.

Enjoy!

John C. Mannone

Poetry Editor

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Published by Karl Rademacher on February 24, 2015. This item is listed in Introductions, Issue 25, Issue 25 Poetry, Uncategorized

Poetry Introduction for Issue 25

As usual, I am proud of our contributing poets for Silver Blade Issue 25.

Deborah P. Kolodji is our Featured Poet and her introduction and interview are found here. To show a small sampling of her talent, Deborah Kolodji (Pasadena, CA) shares her favorite form, haiku: two singular pieces “spent lilacs” (Gromagon Press) and “morning launch” (Scifaikuest) subtly science fiction, followed by a fanciful series of linked fantasy and Sci Fi haiku [“Bashō after Cinderella”*(Rattle), part of which won the 2013 Dwarf Stars Award; “Bashō on the Back Road to Camelot” (Dragons, Knights, and Angels); and “Seasons of a Time Traveler” (Mythic Delirium)]. Her set closes with a beautiful science fiction poem “Equations of a Sonata” that’s as much of a love poem as it is a eulogy.

This segues nicely into a poem “Weathering” by Sandi Leibowitz (Astoria, NY), also about loss, and without sentimentality. The delightful storytelling prose poem “Deaamoo’s Passage” by Deborah Guzzi (Monroe, CT), organically continues what the preceding poems started.

The somewhat darker work with the chant-like structure in the poem “House of the Blind” by Marchell Dyon (Chicago, IL) has nuances of both a rant and a prayer. Like Guzzi’s poem, Dyon’s also has a spiritual subtext. The prolific Australian poet, John Grey (Johnston, RI), presents a very dark poem “The Tattooed Lady”.

There’s a different kind of darkness in the last two poems, both bring mystery and fantasy. An Academy of American Poets Award winner, Laura Madeline Wiseman (Lincoln, NE), brings us an unusual fantasy poem “Crossing the Fairy Threshold”, which is part of a growing collection of fairy neverland poems, and John Reinhart closes us with the pensive and poignant piece “lost in the forest”, which is part of a longer previously published piece [“Dark Light” (Interfictions)].

Please enjoy their work.

John C. Mannone

Poetry Editor

Silver Blade

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Published by Karl Rademacher on February 23, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 25, Issue 25 Stories, Stories

Silver Tongue

by Leigh Ann Cowan

Part 1

“I was a boy when the strangers first came. Bright lights filled the air. The ground seemed to shake. A thing bigger than eight huts together descended toward the field outside my small village. My family and neighbors rushed outside, forgetting their tasks of weapons-making and weaving, and of cooking and dyeing, to stand awestruck. We gaped at the humongous monster as it landed with a deep, throbbing hum, crushing the seedlings we had planted only days before.

“Then all was silent,” whispered Mangled One, pausing for effect. The little ones watched him with open mouths and wide eyes. “I should stop. It is too frightening for you.”

“No!” chorused the children, shaking their heads at the elderly man. “We want to hear the story!”

“All right then,” said Mangled One. “But you’ll have to listen carefully, and don’t interrupt…”

#

The gray thing didn’t move, nor did it make a sound. It sat in the field as the dust slowly settled around its flat feet.

“Silver Tongue,” my mother said quickly in a low voice, giving me a stern but worried look. “Get inside. And don’t come out until I say, you hear?”

“Mother, what is that?” I pointed to the monolithic thing.

“Never you mind, my son,” she frowned, ushering me into our hut. She hurried me to the vegetable pottery and emptied one of the larger ones onto the floor. “Get in this, Silver Tongue, and do not come out until I say.”

I obediently clambered into the pot. She put a finger to her lips, and placed the lid over the pot, leaving just a crack so a sliver of light could enter. I was a rather small child at seven star cycles, but perhaps that was why I survived.

After what felt like an eternity of my being still and quiet, I began to hear commotion. Strange popping sounds echoed loudly and were followed by shrieks. A few twangs meant an arrow had been fired. Crashes and thuds resounded as things were thrown and broken. Familiar names were called out frantically. Strange, guttural cries rang out. Terrified, I clamped a sweaty hand over my mouth. Blood pounded in my veins. I willed my heart to slow so no one would hear it beating wildly in my chest. I knew I would be caught.

But I wasn’t. And my mother never came for me, even when there was no more screaming. Hunger gnawed at my stomach. The light that seeped through the crack mother had left was beginning to diminish; night was falling. So I curled up in an attempt to get comfortable, and tried to sleep.

When I woke, I knew it was light again. I blinked blearily at the peeking day-starlight that filtered into the pot. Everything was still and silent. I wondered if everyone had left me because they didn’t want me anymore. The longer I waited the more I began to believe it. Tears sprung into my eyes and hunger yet again troubled me. My mother had ordered me to stay within the pot, but I was sure she wouldn’t mind if I were to grab a handful of the vegetables she had poured out the day before.

So I crept out. Cold silence hovered in the air. I kneeled down on the floor of the hut and began to pick up the little yellow produce. As I leaned my head back to shove a few in my mouth, I caught sight of something outside the doorway. Chewing, I stared hard at the lump, wondering what it was.

I knew I would be in trouble if I was caught, but curiosity had gotten the better of me. Moving closer, I saw that it was Looks At Sky and laughed. The old man was always falling asleep in the strangest places. I crawled over to him and shook him–then leapt back with a startled yelp.

Looks At Sky was dead, his eyes opened wide in surprise. Blood stained his chest. I jumped to my feet and quickly glanced around for someone to call for help.

But like Looks At Sky, everyone was laying across the ground or over each other. Some were slumped against hut walls; some were half in and half out of their doorways. Crafts and foods had been destroyed and scattered across the ground. Blood was everywhere. No one moved.

“No Wars?” I whispered hoarsely. I kneeled beside my tribe leader and pushed his head scarf up to reveal his eyes. They were glassy, staring at a horror beyond this world.

I looked around me. “Snake Flower?” Dead.

“Peaceful Girl?” Dead.

“Day Star?” Dead.

“Prosperity?” Dead.

Everyone was dead. I began to panic. I counted the tribe members, looked for familiar faces. Everyone was here, even–

“Mother!” I fell to my knees at her side, put my hands to her cold face as my tears finally spilled. She was at the edge of the village, closest to the field. She had probably tried to communicate with the beast, and it had killed her, just like everyone else. The huge thing was nowhere to be seen now, though deep scars had set into the soft dirt of the ruined field. Strange, round footprints led to and from it.

I don’t know how long I stayed at my mother’s side, nor in what direction I had begun to wander. All I knew was that I somehow ended up at another tribe’s gate with blisters on my feet. Here, huts were made of wood, as opposed to our clay ones. The roofs were of straw and grass, and several fire pits were dug throughout the village, above which pots of stew broiled. This village was twice the size of mine, and housed many people who wore bright clothes and had facial piercings.

A woman saw me standing at the edge of the village, and she quickly brought me to the attention of several others of her tribe. The woman, accompanied by a man with a hunting knife, approached me. Her dialect was strange to me, but she spoke with words I understood.

“My tribe is dead,” I stated when she asked where I had come from. “The beast killed them.”

The man and woman shared a glance of confusion, but led me into the village. She sent him off to summon the tribe leader while she fed me hot stew from a bowl fashioned from the skull of an animal.

She asked me my name and tribe name.

I shook my head, indicating that I did not wish to speak to her. She became silent and refilled my bowl with the spicy food.

A withered old woman was escorted to me by the man who had first approached me and another more muscular one who appeared to be her bodyguard. I set the skull down to show her respect, as I would had No Wars approached me.

“What is your name?” she asked in the weird dialect.

“Silver Tongue.”

“Seelvor Tong,” she repeated it incorrectly, but I said nothing. “What happened to your tribe?”

I recounted the story, beginning with the beast that had descended from the sky. I told how my mother had saved me, the horrific screaming, and how when I woke everyone was dead. By the end of my story, a group of adults in colorful clothing surrounded me. A couple of women looked at me with tears running down their cheeks; several men looked shocked and angry. But the tribal leader sat dispassionately as she listened, never once interrupting.

Then she spoke: “My tribe name is Galloping Forest. I am Seventh Rain.”

I nodded, wiping my tears with a yellow cloth someone had passed to me.

“You stay here,” she continued. Then she turned to several of the men who seemed to have more piercings than the rest. “Rising Moon, Quiet Son, Runs Fast, to Sky Readers village, go. Find out what happened.”

“Yes,” they said in unison, standing and setting off immediately. I picked up my skull bowl and continued eating. I refused to look up.

The woman who had first approached me, whose name was First Daughter, took me into her own home and gave me a bed. I couldn’t sleep that night. The low murmurs of the Galloping Forest tribe members could be heard until the early hours of the morning. The three men who were sent to investigate my claims must have returned and spoken of what they had seen. Eventually, the conversations died down, and it was silent. I now realized just how silent the world could be.

I laid awake, listening to the nothingness and staring up at the thatched roof. My brain begged sleep, but my body was too restless. The day-star began to rise, and yet I was still wakeful. First Daughter began to stir, then got up from her creaky bed and passed me to the firepit in the center of the room. She poked the embers with a charred stick, sending up red sparks, and added dry grass to it. Then she set about preparing breakfast.

I watched her.

She was very quick and skillful about it, and breakfast was ready before the sky turned blue. The delicious smell had filled the hut. First Daughter sat back on her haunches and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She glanced over at me.

She must have seen the firelight dancing in my eyes. She beckoned me to come to her, so I rolled onto my hands and knees and crawled the short distance to her.

“Hungry?” she whispered, taking care not to wake her daughter, whose bed I had slept in.

I accepted the fresh bread and sliced meat, steam still rising from them. My mouth watered, and I ate it quickly. I was disappointed, as it tasted nothing like what my mother had made. The thought saddened me. I would never eat anything by my mother’s hands again, nor hear her voice, nor feel her warmth as she hugged me close. My heart ached as I tried to remember those things.

First Daughter held out more food to me, but I turned from it. She moved closer to me and put a hand on my head comfortingly. It did nothing to console me, and at the time I did not appreciate her effort. She wasn’t my mother, I had thought with distaste.

I pushed her hand away and walked out of the door. The village looked drab compared to their exotic clothing. I saw plants hung up on lines strung from the roof of one house to another; I assumed that dyes were made from them. I wandered around, ignoring the looks I received from the tribe members. Children with nose rings followed me curiously. The older the child, the more piercings he or she seemed to have. There were many children here; in my tribe, I was one of the only five children. I ignored the mothers who reprimanded their children and hurried them away from me. As far as they were concerned, I was a stranger and a curse. I envied those children–their parents were still alive and well.

“Silver Tongue,” called out First Daughter. I stopped and looked to my right, where she stood in her doorway. I had walked in a circle. She beckoned to me, but I remained where I was. “Hungry?”

I glanced up. The day-star had risen high in the sky, but was not yet at its peak. It was time for mid-day meal, I supposed. I shook my head at her, earning yet another sad look. All I wanted was to eat something I knew. I thought Galloping Forest was so close a village to my own. How could we have such different tastes? Though now I know it was in fact a five-hour walk to that village.

I sat in the shade of First Daughter’s hut, and she went back inside with one last pitying look, and I finally fell into a much-needed sleep.

Jostled awake by rough hands. A startled cry escaped my throat as I was pulled to my feet. The man I recognized as Seventh Rain’s bodyguard gripped my arm tightly, as though he expected me to run away. His face was emotionless, but his eyes betrayed uncertainty. “Come,” he said in a deep, reverberating voice.

I didn’t have much choice in the matter. He began to walk, taking long strides that were difficult for me to keep up with. His vice-like grip on my arm was beginning to hurt. He was bringing me to the front of the village, where I had appeared the day before.

A throng of tribe members stood facing the entrance; their backs were to us. As we approached, several looked over their shoulders and stepped aside so that we could pass. The hunched figure of Seventh Rain stood at the fore of her people, studying the strangers.

My breath caught in my throat as I looked at them. They were so different from us. The three strangers wore clothing that was unlike any I’d ever seen; hardly any skin could be seen on them. Each of them had a slightly different skin color; one had skin as dark as wood, and another’s was as pale as starlight. The other one seemed to have a flesh tone in between. Their hair was different, too. One had fire for hair, it seemed, and another’s was so curly it seemed unreal. Their eyes, noses, and lips were all different. Then I noticed the strange sticks they held down at their sides.

“Silver Tongue,” said Seventh Rain slowly. “These creatures?”

I shook my head. “Do not know.”

The stranger with wooden skin stepped forward, and I heard shuffling behind me as the whole village stepped back warily. He spoke, and I recognized the guttural noise as what I had heard the day my mother had been killed.

“Killers!” I screamed, spinning on my heels to run. I was stopped short due to the man’s grip on me. “Killers! Killers!” The memory of my fallen tribe flashed past my eyes–the blood, the glassy eyes, the cold bodies. The villagers began to murmur in shock and fear, moving back even further. They looked ready to run.

Seventh Rain spoke calmly. “Silver Tongue.”

I quit fighting, breathing heavily. I looked at the strangers wildly, saw them watching with unreadable expressions. My eyes trained themselves on the tribe leader as she continued.

“With them, you will go. Galloping Forest remains safe if you will go. So go.”

I gaped at her. I hardly realized that her bodyguard was dragging me to the strangers until we were almost upon them. The wooden-skin raised his stick, and the others followed suit. They looked dangerous–they were killers.

“No!” I wailed. “First Daughter! No! Save me, please!” But if First Daughter was in the crowd, I could not see her. I should not have expected her to save me, anyway; she had her own child to look after.

Seventh Rain’s bodyguard offered me to the wooden-skin. One of the strangers behind him said something in their foreign language, and the wooden-skin studied me. He replied, then reached for me and took a surprisingly strong hold of my wrist.

I let out a scream louder and shriller than any before, as though the touch burned, and struggled to free myself. Seventh Rain’s bodyguard quickly backed away. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I threw all my weight to the ground in an attempt to be too heavy for him. I clawed and bit him, but he seemed unaffected. His clothing was made of unfamiliar armor that protected him.

One of the other strangers quickly approached and grabbed me, and the wooden-skin released me. He stepped towards the villagers again, but this time, they raised their bows. The wooden-skin backed away and said something. I, still screaming and struggling, was taken with them, out of the village.

“First Daughter!” I cried again. “First Daughter!” But she never came.

And I never saw the Galloping Forest tribe again.

#

Part 2

“What happened next?” prompted one of the children as the old man lapsed into silence. Mangled One jolted out of the fantasy and looked at the eager children.

“What happened, indeed? Listen:”

#

When I realized escape was impossible, I ceased my efforts against them and walked. The one with fire hair continued to hold my hand, but not as tightly as before. We walked for several meters through tall, dense trees. I had never seen so many trees in my life, but I had heard stories from my elders about this sea of life. They had spoken of it wondrously, but I thought it was terrifying.

Almost suddenly, the forest began to thin. The trees’ girths became smaller, and gave way to grass. Then we came upon a meadow. I dug my heels into the ground, beginning my fight anew when I saw what we were heading toward. The fire hair cried out and tightened her grip on me, but I kept pulling, forcing her to drop her stick and grab me with both hands.

The huge gray thing sat in the meadow, waiting menacingly. While the fire hair continued to struggle with me, she spoke in her strange language. Another alien came and tried to speak to me in a softer tone. He said something to the fire hair, then sprinted off towards the monster. It opened its great maw on its underbelly and swallowed the stranger. The fire hair refused to release me, and her dark companion merely stood to the side and watched our struggle. Their expressions were unreadable to me.

The one that had been swallowed returned, this time with two smaller figures. The smaller of the two was carried in his arms, and they all rushed back to the edge of the clearing. When they neared, I saw that the smaller figures were children. I stopped fighting and stared in surprise. It had never occurred to me that these strangers would have offspring.

The older child appeared to be a few star cycles older than me. He bared his teeth at me, and reached out to touch my hair. He patted me as though I were his pet, and said something in a scratchy voice. He squatted in front of me in his strange clothing, placing his hand on his chest. He said something slowly, emphasizing his chest with his hand, still baring his teeth.

I scowled at him.

He said it again, even more slowly than the first time: “Luk-man.” Then he repeated it: “Lukman. Lukman. Lukman.” Each time he gestured to himself.

Finally, I realized that he was trying to tell me his name. “Lukman,” I said, bewildered by the harsh syllables that rolled off my tongue.

He seemed to be delighted, as well as the other aliens that surrounded me. I noticed suddenly that three more had joined them. They began to buzz in their language. Lukman pointed to me, babbling in his scratchy voice. While the others quieted, he continued to speak to me. He didn’t seem to realize that I couldn’t understand him. He gestured to me, spouting off nonsense, then gestured again. He was asking my name.

“Silver Tongue,” I said tentatively, gesturing to my own chest with my free hand. The fire hair still held me.

Lukman frowned and started talking again. “S–Sil?” he stammered.

“Silver Tongue,” I reiterated. “Silver Tongue. Silver Tongue.”

“Silver Tongue?” he asked. His smile returned, and he spun around to face his family. He repeated my name slowly for them until they could call me as well. Hearing them stumble over the syllables made me see that they were genuinely attempting to communicate with me. Perhaps they were not the killers, but the slaves of the giant in the meadow, I thought.

The man who had brought the two children kneeled beside Lukman. He pointed to his chest this time and said slowly: “Jaxith.”

“Jaxith.” He nodded, the corners of his pink lips turning upwards. He said something to the fire hair.

She spoke to me, pointing to herself. “Se-mi-ra. Semira.”

“Fire Hair.”

She seemed flabbergasted. She pointed to herself. “Semira.”

“Fire Hair.” I pointed to her hair. “Fire.”

She shared a confused look with the others. I looked around for something to communicate with. I spotted a patch of bare ground nearby and dragged Fire Hair over to it. With a finger, I drew fire, then pointed to her hair.

Jaxith turned his head to one side to look at my drawing from another angle, then his eyes lit up. He covered his mouth with a hand as he laughed, a strikingly familiar sound, shouting a word. He laughed as he said something to Fire Hair, and her hand went up to her red hair.

The others joined in laughing, but Fire Hair jutted out her lower lip. To me, she insisted, “Se-mi-ra. Semira. Semira.”

“Semira,” I frowned.

The small child whom Jaxith had been carrying approached me. It held out a tiny white flower to me. I stared at it. The flower’s roots were still wriggling, and I realized that it was a Ygit–a poisonous insect that disguised itself as a flower.

I took it between my thumb and first finger, careful to avoid the stingers, and stared at it, trying to figure out what to do with it. Fire Hair held out her hand for it but I held it away. These creatures knew nothing of this world, it seemed. The flower insect became more desperate, writhing in my grip. I understood how it felt. I dragged the reluctant Fire Hair over to a tree and gently placed the insect on its bark. When I released it, it scurried away up the trunk. I watched it go longingly.

The child stood next to me, gaping up at the flower insect. Fire Hair’s grip loosened on me, then fell away. I turned and looked at her. She stepped away from me. Jaxith and the others said something in alarm, and Jaxith reached out for me. Fire Hair held out an arm to stop him, saying something that sounded important. She never took her eyes off of me. Was she letting me free?

I backed away uncertainly, but none made a move to stop me. Still no one moved or spoke when I had reached the edge of the trees, nor when I had moved beyond that. Then I turned to leave, but stopped. Where would I go?

A twig snapped somewhere to my left, and I cocked my head towards the sound. A graceful tree guardian stood nearby, looking back at me with its big, solemn eyes. Colors rippled across its skin; they were good colors. It wanted to tell me something. The guardian looked at me for a long moment, then moved its elongated head to look at the strangers. I didn’t think they could see the guardian; it was hidden by a clump of trees. The guardian had come to tell me to stay with the creatures, I was sure. The colors of its skin foretold peace and prosperity. Without much choice, I looked back at the strange people, who still stood watching me.

I looked back to the guardian, but it was already well on its way back to deeper woods. My mother had always warned me to never disobey any guardian, for the consequences of doing so could be dire. There were many stories about foolish travelers who refused to listen, and often they met untimely demises.

I watched as the child plucked another Ygit. With a burst of courage, I marched back and grabbed its wrist, forcing it to drop the thing. The insect scurried away into the grass.

“Dangerous,” I said, touching his nose. My mother had often done that when I did things that she didn’t approve of. On a whim, I named the child. “Plucked Flower.” I reiterated to him that what he had done was bad.

Lukman walked over to us, again babbling excitedly. Even though I couldn’t understand a single word of it, he seemed to be talking to me. I no longer feared the strangers. The guardian had told me they were no threat. It was not these strangers who had killed my tribe.

I took Lukman’s hand and the child’s hand, and allowed them to lead me toward the monolith that had first landed in my tribe’s field. The adults followed us, and we were swallowed by the monster.

Inside, its breath was icy, and I shivered as it touched my bare skin. There was a strange smell in the air, and the monster’s stomach was empty but for the light that shone down from somewhere. It looked nothing like any animal I’d ever seen..

Lukman began to ramble on again. As though I could understand him.

“Talks A Lot,” I named him. He stopped mid-breath and looked at me. I gestured to him. “Talks A Lot.”

“Lukman,” he said.

I shook my head. “Talks A Lot.”

He nodded, seeming to resign himself to his new name. I pointed to the child that had released me and was now digging into a box full of strange objects. “Plucked Flower.”

It seemed the only way we understood each other was with hand gestures and names. So I decided to name all the creatures according to my people’s culture. I pointed to the dark one who seemed to be the leader: “Wood Skin.”

They repeated it. While most of them seemed eager to learn and listen, others seemed to be uninterested.

“Fire Hair.”

I came to Jaxith and had to think. He watched me expectantly, then I pointed to him. “Laughing Summer.” He had a warm laugh, and he seemed so far to have a kind personality. Laughing Summer stumbled over his name, and I corrected him until he could say it before moving on.

This female had the palest eyes I had ever seen, and I stared at them in awe for a long moment. “Little Moons.”

“Slim Face,” to the woman whose face was thin and pointy.

“Echo,” to the woman who repeated anything I said several times.

Another man drinking something belched loudly, drawing a disgusted look from several of his companions. He shrugged and became “Has No Shame.”

The last woman was another difficult one. I eventually decided to don her “Big Eyes.”

Plucked Flower came up to me with a strange, colorful device. I accepted it and stared at it dumbly. Plucked Flower pressed it with a little finger; the thing lit up and buzzed in my hands. I shrieked and threw it away from me, holding my hand a distance from me because it still tingled. My first thought was that I had been poisoned by the thing.

Laughing Summer immediately picked it up. “Silver Tongue,” he said, holding up a hand. He pressed the same button Plucked Flower had, and the lights began to flash and swirl again. A soft buzzing sound found my ears. The lights danced and spun in a small bubble on the end of the thing in Laughing Summer’s hand; it was quite entrancing. I stared hard at it, trying to figure out what it was.

I recognized that it was child’s toy when Plucked Flower began to bring out more devices that lit up and made sounds. Some had wheels and moved of their own accord; others resembled strange creatures that I had never seen. Before I knew it, I was sitting with Plucked Flower and Talks A Lot, examining and learning of these strange things. Talks A Lot, of course, rambled incessantly.

After we had played for a while, Fire Hair called us to eat with them. It was a warm, funny-tasting dinner. There were vegetables I had never seen before, and something brown that tasted like meat. I had never before seen browned meat. I came to like the taste of the strangers’ foods.

Sleepiness overcame me once I had eaten. I remembered I hadn’t slept for over a day. They put me into a circular bed–another first for me, and the softness of it sent me instantly into a deep slumber. My last cognitive thought was, “I wish my mother were here.”

#

Part 3

The next morning, Little Moons took it upon herself to start teaching me their words. In return, I taught them my language. They seemed to find my pronunciation hard; our language was more melodic than their rough tones. Even when they said something correctly, it was still hardly recognizable as one of my people’s words.

By the end of the day, I knew the words for most of the objects we could find, yet they hardly retained anything I had taught them. It was disappointing, to say the least. While I could remember “window,” and “metal,” and “washroom,” they could not remember my words for the trees and sky.

As we ate dinner that night, I listened to their conversations and caught several words I had learned. But I still could not understand them. They did try to include me in their conversations, but it took much repeating and hand gesturing before I inferred their meaning, and it took even more time to convey my words back. So, eventually, I immersed myself into concentration on eating, and they took the hint.

Over the next weeks, Little Moons began to teach me strange symbols to scrawl onto thin pieces of white cloth. I realized soon that they were letters, and that each had a name. When she reordered them and sounded them out, they became words. Little Moons also drew pictures next to the words. They were simplistic, but recognizable. They seemed delighted by how quickly I caught on, though I thought my writing was clumsy.

Before I knew it, nearly a star cycle had passed. I was eight star cycles then, and was able to carry on a conversation with them on just about anything. I taught them what plants were safe to eat and how to prepare them when their food supplies began to dwindle.

I learned that they came from a planet far away, and that they had to leave because they had different beliefs than everyone else. I asked why, but they couldn’t seem to give me an answer. They had reached my planet after thousands of star cycles of travel; they had slept in tubes that kept them alive. They showed me a great room full of them, all empty.

The giant monster I had first feared was actually their spaceship. They hadn’t been the only ones in it; in fact, there were hundreds of them, one for each of the sleep-life-tubes. Has No Shame privately told me that those who didn’t die in their sleep woke up and went insane. Many of them ran off into the wilderness with their gun-sticks. I assumed, on my own, that the insane ones had killed my tribe.

I learned, eventually, that Big Eyes’s eyes actually were not big, but magnified by glasses, as they called them. I tried them on, but the world around me suddenly distorted, making me dizzy. I couldn’t understand how they could help Big Eyes see better.

I learned all their true names, but still called them by the names I had given them. To them, their true names had no meaning, but were simply just a part of them. Laughing Summer and Fire Hair had twenty-three star cycles to their life; Talks A Lot had twelve; Plucked Flower, whom I finally learned to be Talks A Lot’s younger brother, had four; Wood Skin, Echo, Has No Shame, and Big Eyes all had about thirty star cycles; Little Moons had forty-seven; Slim Face had fifty-four.

Has No Shame, the best shooter, taught me to fire the gun-sticks. They were powerful weapons, more powerful than any arrow or stone. He told me they were for protection, but their people had often used them to attack and as weapons of war. The gun-stick was a fearful piece. Has No Shame also introduced me to alcohol and drinking games, though I found neither of them pleasurable. Fire Hair scolded him for teaching me.

Laughing Summer was a story teller. His stories were often comical, but also had lessons. One such story was of two creatures called a tortoise and a hare. The tortoise was very slow, and the hare very fast, and they decided to have a race. The moral of the story, it was carefully explained to me, was that slow and steady wins the race.

Big Eyes was the pilot of the spaceship, and she made sure that everything worked correctly. She was also able to communicate with their home planet, although it took several days to exchange messages due to the distance she called “light years.” When she was in good humor, she would show me how certain technologies worked. My favorite thing to do was flash the colored lights, controlling the power with the flick of a switch.

Wood Skin was a serious man, but he also was one of the kindest. Once when I had been practicing my letters, I had run out of the white cloth. There was a stack of them on the table, so I took some of them, even though it looked as though they had already been marked on. Big Eyes walked in and saw that I was writing on them, and snatched them away with a squeal, her eyes larger than I had ever seen them.

“Silver Tongue!” she’d snapped at me. I looked up at her in confusion as she began to rant at me in her foreign language, words rolling off her tongue faster than I could comprehend. Wood Skin, probably having heard the commotion, entered the room and came to my rescue. He spoke quietly to Big Eyes, who began to argue. Wood Skin seemed to win, however, because she gathered up the white cloths and haughtily left. He smiled at me and patted my head, saying something that might have been to put me at ease, though my ears still rang from my reprimand. He took me to a small drawer near the window and opened it, showing me where hundreds of white cloths were hidden. He gave me some and went away to whatever he had been doing before.

Echo was a very quiet person, and I never got to know her well. She was always off on her own, documenting plant and animal species. Sometimes she asked me questions pertaining to a creature she had found, to which I would reply with something simple. She appeared to be disappointed with most of my answers and skulked away to continued sketching the things in her book.

Little Moons and Slim Face were sisters, I learned, though I couldn’t see any resemblance. Little Moons had a more outgoing personality as opposed to Slim Face’s distant one. Little Moons relished in correcting my pronunciation and teaching me more. She often found pleasure in having me read to her. I think she was in love with my voice; she urged me to speak as often as I wished. Slim Face, however, seemed to want to have nothing to do with me. She only answered to her true name, Cheche. She ignored me whenever it was possible.

Talks A Lot and Plucked Flower became my friends quickly, and shared everything they owned with me. Talks A Lot frequently convinced me to wear his strange clothing, but I quickly rediscovered each time how much it limited my movement and I removed it, preferring to wear my own.

I lived with them in their spaceship for several star cycles, learning of their customs and language. Soon I felt as though I had always been their family, and I’m sure they felt the same with me. My late mother and tribe were rarely in my thoughts. As we grew older, Plucked Flower began to look more like a boy; Talks A Lot stretched taller and began to grow hair on his chin. My body began to mature as well, and my voice became deeper. Slim Face and Fire Hair made clothes for us boys.

Fire Hair then was nearly seven months into her pregnancy; she and Laughing Summer had fallen into something Little Moons called love. Sometimes, when she wasn’t overly emotional or irrationally angry, I would sit with my hands placed gently on her protruding stomach, waiting to feel the baby kick. It was fascinating to me.

“Silver Tongue,” called Wood Skin from outside.

I went to the captain immediately, leaving Fire Hair to her sewing.

“Will you help me pick these?” he asked, standing up and arching his back tiredly. He was standing in the garden with his pants legs rolled up to his knees, revealing his dark skin.

I nodded and set to work, pulling up the strange orange vegetables called carrots. I tossed each one into the basket Wood Skin had brought outside with him. It was happy work, and I sang old songs I vaguely remembered from my childhood, humming the parts my tongue lost. Little Moons came outside to listen and sew in the day-starlight.

I stopped abruptly and turned my head toward the forest that surrounded us. I stood slowly, peering intently at the trees.

“Silver Tongue?” Wood Skin asked.

I held up a hand to silence him. As if on their own accord, my feet began to move stealthily towards the tree line. There was something there, I could feel it. As I passed the first tree that marked the edge of the forest, I turned to the right.

The tree guardian was there, just as it was several star cycles before, looking at me solemnly. Only this time, colors that foretold danger pulsed on its skin. Reds and oranges intermixed with swirls of black, darting angrily across its flesh. A distant twang that awakened a past memory echoed through the trees, drawing my attention. When I blinked and turned back to the guardian, it was gone.

“Silver Tongue,” Wood Skin called, approaching me. “What’s wrong?”

With wide eyes, I looked at him over my shoulder. Little Moons had stopped sewing and was watching with interest. Laughing Summer came out of the ship, shirtless, with a gun-stick slung over his shoulder.

Words from my language rapidly poured from my lips, my mind racing. What was the danger the guardian was trying to warn me of? Was it them? Or was someone going to attack? Was I in danger, or all of us? Or was a horrible accident about to happen?

“What’s going on?” Laughing Summer frowned, coming up behind Wood Skin, who had stopped a short distance from me. I eyed his gun-stick.

“Put it down,” I ordered.

Both men seemed surprised. Laughing Summer didn’t move.

“Put the gun-stick down,” I repeated, a tremor of fear entering my voice.

Laughing Summer stared at me, but didn’t lower the gun-stick.

“Laughing Summer,” I pleaded, taking a step back. Could they not hear my heart hammering in my chest?

He gently put the gun-stick on the ground, never taking his eyes off of me. “Are you okay, Silver Tongue?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You know I’d never hurt you.”

I glanced over at where the guardian had stood only moments before. I wondered if I’d imagined it.

Twang!

“Ah,” Laughing Summer suddenly uttered as though protesting something, his face grimacing. He stumbled sideways into Wood Skin, who grabbed him in surprise. Little Moons let out a shriek. I gaped at the bolt that protruded from Laughing Summer’s ribs.

“We’re under attack!” Wood Skin bellowed. “Get inside! Go, go!”

Laughing Summer groaned in pain, clutching at the arrow’s shaft. His face was deathly white. Wood Skin hoisted him up and began to drag him back to the ship. Another twang signaled an arrow being fired; it just missed Wood Skin and plunged into the ground, quivering.

“Silver Tongue!” Wood Skin yelled over his shoulder. “Move your ass!”

I scooped up the gun-stick Laughing Summer had set down and sprinted after them, hating myself. They wouldn’t have shot if he hadn’t put it down!

I listened for the next sing of bow. It came, and threw myself to the ground. The arrow flew over my head and lodged into a far tree. Wood Skin and Laughing Summer had made it to the spaceship. I pushed myself to my feet, clicking off the safety button of the gun-stick.

I pointed it in the direction of the twang, anticipating their next move. If they were a good archer, they would move away from their last attack point, almost always towards a more protective spot. I knew the culprit would be hiding in the thick clump of trees to the right.

I fired; felt my eardrum pop painfully, but I didn’t care. All I cared was to see a dead archer. I heard a high-pitched scream. I had hit my mark!

A young girl stumbled out of the trees, clutching her shoulder. She dropped her bow and fell face-first to the dirt. Several bolts spilled from her quiver. She was still.

I dropped the gun-stick, mouth gaping. It was a girl of my kind. She was my age, only about thirteen star cycles. My hands shook, and I felt sick. Has No Shame burst out of the ship, his own gun-stick ready, and took one glance from me to my kill.

“Shit. Come on, Silver Tongue,” he said quietly, grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the door. He put his arm around my shoulders, turned me around, forced me to look away.

“What happened?” demanded Talks A Lot as Has No Shame led me toward the kitchen. As we passed a mirror, I saw my reflection. I was pale, sweaty, and shaking. I looked as though I had come down with a horrible fever–and I felt as though I had. I had just killed someone. That girl was what the guardian was trying to warn me of.

“Take care of him, Lukman,” Has No Shame said gruffly, pushing me into his arms. This was the most serious I had ever seen him. “Keep him and Ghaith inside. Dureth, come with me…Shit.”

Wood Skin left with Has No Shame, a grim expression shadowing his face. Plucked Flower attempted to follow, but Talks A Lot grabbed him and scolded him. For once, Talks A Lot had nothing to say. I sank to the floor, shaking horribly.

“Laughing Summer,” I said when I saw him across the room. He was laying motionless on the floor. Slim Face and Fire Hair were tending to him while Big Eyes was busy recording an urgent message to send back to their home planet. Echo stood helplessly aside, trying to get out of Little Moon’s way as she rushed about looking for clean linens to use as bandages.

Laughing Summer yelled out as Fire Hair tried to pull out the arrow. It didn’t come out, and Fire Hair fervently apologized, tears streaking her cheeks.

“Stop!” I shouted at her. They all looked at me; Fire Hair held a hand to her lover’s shoulder. “You can’t pull it out! That’s the way it was made–you have to cut it out!”

“No,” Fire Hair shook her head.

“Bring me a knife,” Slim Face said quietly. “Give him something to bite down on,” she told Fire Hair.

Talks A Lot brought her a sharp kitchen knife.

“No,” Fire Hair repeated. “You’re not a doctor! You can’t do this! He needs a doctor, Cheche!”

“The doctor’s dead!” Slim Face snapped.

Laughing Summer moaned in agony. “Just do it,” he cried hoarsely.

“Help hold him down,” Slim Face ordered. Talks A Lot took hold of his ankles. Echo stepped forward to help, and Little Moons finally returned with clean cloths. Fire Hair rolled a cloth up and pushed it into Laughing Summer’s mouth.

I stood shakily, sick to my stomach. I retched a little, but nothing came up. I needed fresh air. As I left the ship, I saw Wood Skin examining the girl’s dead body as Has No Shame stood guard, gun-stick at the ready.

I stumbled towards the edge of the woods. The air wasn’t helping. I choked on my tears, and heard Has No Shame call out my name in alarm. I leaned up against a tree at the edge of the forest, and finally vomited. Then I continued deeper into the forest, not really aware of anything. All I could think about was the girl I had killed. She was my own kind; I was a traitor. The worst kind of traitor–the kind who instigated wars. I had lost my mother, but to another species. Her mother had lost her daughter to her own race. What horrors, what grief had I unleashed unto her family?

I deserved no less than death myself.

In the distance, I could still hear Has No Shame and Wood Skin calling me. I had to leave. I could no longer go back to them. I was a murderer of my own people. If Laughing Summer died, it was my fault. And then I would be a murderer of my family, too. My legs gave out under me, and I couldn’t get back up.

On my hands and knees, I looked up at the sky, tears slipping down my cheeks.

“Mother, why’d you leave me!” I shouted up at the treetops. “If you hadn’t hidden me, I’d be dead with you! I hate you! I hate you so much! You should have let me die with everyone else!” I sobbed and lowered my face to the leaf-covered ground, clutching my hair. My shoulders shook with each chest-wracking sob. “I should have died with you.”

I heard twigs snap as someone approached. I looked up.

“You.”

The tree guardian looked at me solemnly.

“Why me?” I asked it pitifully, a tear sliding down the side of my nose. “Why do you keep coming to me? Go bother someone else, please.”

It kneeled regally before me, pointing its ears toward me. The colors on its skin were now neutral. It had nothing to foretell.

I heard a new voice in the distance: “Bell Star!”

The guardian turned its head in that direction. I stood and ventured towards the voice silently, never looking back. The guardian did nothing.

A young woman was wandering through the trees, calling Bell Star’s name. With her was an older man; he was probably her father. She was surprised to see me emerge.

“Excuse me,” she said, inclining her head to me respectfully. “Have you seen a girl around here? My sister’s been gone hunting for quite a while, and I worry she’s gotten lost.”

Without a word, I took her hand and began to lead her back towards the clearing. The older man followed. It was only the thing I could think to do, for I didn’t trust my voice.

“It’s dangerous around here, you know,” the young woman whispered to me. “Aliens have been running around recently. My sister thinks she can take them on herself, though she swore this time she’s only gone hunting for food.”

As we reached the clearing, I uttered the words, “I killed her,” and released her hand. Wood Skin was no longer kneeling at the girl’s side, but she had been laid out so that she only appeared to be sleeping. Her bow and arrows were placed beside her. The men stood nearby the corpse, watching us as we appeared from the forest.

The young woman gave a strangled cry and ran to her sister. She dropped to her knees the moment she reached her and lifted her into her arms. “Bell Star! Bell Star!” she screamed as though it would wake her. The girls’ father hobbled as quickly as he could. He kneeled and picked up his daughter’s bow, tearful.

The elder sister turned to me and screamed for an explanation that I couldn’t bring myself to give. I began to cry again and sank to the ground, unable to look at them. I had no one to blame but myself. Because of me, Laughing Summer was hurt, and from my own anger stemmed a girl’s death. Listening to Bell Star’s sister’s wails hurt me even more.

Plucked Flower ventured out of the ship, unsupervised by Talks A Lot. He slowly neared the sister, almost unnoticed. He looked down at the dead girl for a moment, then spoke brokenly in my language to the sister and father. Plucked Flower was the only one who seemed capable of learning my language; I had spent much time trying to teach him.

“Excuse me,” he said.

They looked at him. The sister held a contemptuous expression. “Alien,” she growled menacingly. Her hand moved to her hip, where a knife surely was hidden. I shifted, my heart leaping into my chest.

“Not Silver Tongue’s fault,” he said, stopping both me and her short. He pointed at the girl. “She shot Jaxith.”

“Jax?” frowned the father.

“She shot first,” Plucked Flower insisted. “Silver Tongue shot in the trees,” he pointed to where I had fired, though that was something he should not have known. He must have seen from the window. “Silver Tongue not know she’s there.”

The elder sister scooped Bell Star up into her arms and began to trudge away sadly, acknowledging that her sister had been the attacker. The old man picked up the arrows as well and followed silently. I stared down at my feet as they passed.

“Murderer Of His People,” she dubbed me. The worst title one could bear.

After a few minutes, the sister’s sorrowful wails began anew, and I covered my ears.

Plucked Flower came over to me and wrapped his arms around me comfortingly. “Jaxith is okay, Silver Tongue.” He patted my head.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself, kid,” said Has No Shame, putting his strong arm around my shoulders. I felt Wood Skin’s familiar hand on my head, though he said nothing.

“Let’s go inside,” Plucked Flower suggested. “It’s getting dark.”

“We must leave,” I sobbed, wiping my never ending tears. “They will come to kill us. They do not see us as equal beings here.”

“We can protect ourselves,” Has No Shame assured me, pulling me to my feet. “We’ve got superior weapons.”

I wasn’t so sure. There were far more of my kind than the eight of them living here.

They led me back to the spaceship, Has No Shame’s arm still resting almost lazily on my shoulders. He suspected that I might run again.

Inside, Laughing Summer had been moved onto a bed and covered with clean, white blankets. He was still a bit pale, but otherwise looked fine. He was sleeping with Fire Hair sitting at his side. Fire Hair stroked her protruding stomach as though comforting her unborn child.

I treaded quietly over to them, and Has No Shame let me go. No one said anything, but I could feel them watching me. I vaguely remembered a time when I was sick, and my mother had taken care of me. She had…

Words formed on the tip of my tongue, and I closed my eyes. I let the words spill forth in a gentle waterfall. It was a song she had sung to me, a comforting song:

#

May the guardian call to you,

May he deem you well.

The guardian is more true

Than the ring of bell.

#

Back to the desert sand,

Your sickness shall exile.

My son, again you will stand

With your charming smile.

#

May the guardian call to you,

May he deem you well.

The guardian shall come through

And grant me you to revel.

#

My son, again you will stand

With your charming smile.

Here I will wait for you

Until that time may come.

#

When I opened my eyes, Laughing Summer was looking at me. Startled and embarrassed, I stepped back and put a hand over my mouth. I suddenly found myself laughing, for no discernible reason. Laughing Summer smiled.

“I’ll live,” he said, a bit hoarsely.

“I am glad,” I replied, lowering my hand.

Then he went back to sleep, eyes fluttering closed.

Once his breathing had evened out, I walked back into the main room. Wood Skin and Has No Shame were waiting there, talking quietly. Plucked Flower and Talks A Lot sat a little ways away from them, but it was obvious that they were listening.

“We’ll need to be careful from now on,” I said loudly, drawing their attentions. Before they could reply, I said, “No one can go out alone. Go out with as many others as possible. My kind don’t like to attack groups. But they will attack children, especially since I’ve killed one of theirs.

“Always carry a gun-stick with you. The more the better. Our arrows are often accurate and strong, but they are no match for your weapons. Start wearing thicker clothing again. If you were to meet with the blade of an arrow, at least you’d have a softer blow–and a better chance of survival. We never know when we’ll be attacked.”

Wood Skin nodded. “We will be careful. What will we do for food? There is not enough in the garden for us to live off of, not in the long run. We’ll need to hunt.”

“Hunt in groups,” I replied. “They will hear the explosions of the gun-sticks and fear our power. That might deter them–at least for a longer while.”

“Speaking of food,” said Talks A Lot suddenly, “I’m starving!”

“Shut up,” Has No Shame said, tossing his boot at the young man’s head. “We’re all hungry.”

Talks A Lot scowled and threw the smelly thing back. Then he returned to his task of darning a sock, though he was doing a poor job of it.

I couldn’t help but to smile. Perhaps everything would be okay.

#

Part 4

“And was everything okay?” asked Round Stone. “There is a happy ending, no?”

“Perhaps there is,” said the old man vaguely. “We are nearly to the finish now. Listen:”

#

For several days, all was quiet in the forest. But inside the ship, tensions were rising. Being stuck together inside for so long seemed to wear down the aliens’ nerves. Even the calm Wood Skin’s patience was short, and he often spoke curtly and resumed glowering. Squabbles broke out constantly. A fist fight between Talks a Lot and Has No Shame had to be broken up by Little Moons and Plucked Flower. There was nowhere private except the washrooms, which I frequented despite having no need to be in there. At least I could get a bit of peace there.

No one was allowed to set foot outside without accompaniment; this also served as an irritation. But they adhered to it to alleviate my fear of attack. Perhaps they also knew deep down that it was inevitable for another attack. The more of us there were, the less chance that my people would build up the courage to wage war. Hunting trips were far less fruitful since we did not dare stray too far from the camp. The gardens outside were practically abandoned and overgrown, though it had only been a short time. Yet we were safe, and rationing ensured we did not go hungry.

A month passed with no incidents, and the group had formed a peace treaty amongst themselves. Fire Hair’s baby was born. It was a tiny girl–a squirmy thing. To my horror, she was hideously deformed, and I lamented that the atmosphere of my planet, which they had told me was different from theirs, had caused it. The babe had a large head, hardly any hair upon it, and eyes much too large for her face. Her tiny lips were puckered, and her gums harbored no teeth. Even her limbs seemed horribly out of proportion. I spent much time fervently apologizing to Fire Hair and Laughing Summer, not understanding their confusion in regards to my pleas for forgiveness. Then, once I had tried to explain, they laughed at me and assured me that the baby was completely healthy and normal. I disagreed, though. Infants of my people were relatively quiet and curious; they rode in their mother’s sling and watched the world around them. This one wailed. Loudly. All the time.

Fire Hair and Laughing Summer had named her Nomble. I named her Crying Loudly. I translated it for them, and Laughing Summer laughed while Fire Hair scowled. Most of us went out as a group when Crying Loudly was awake; it was much more peaceful. It seemed that Crying Loudly’s birth had brought a mutual desire to go outside, never mind whether it was a large, armed group or not. It seemed the only way to silence the baby was to feed her, dress her, or sing her to sleep. None of those were delightful tasks, however, and none were guaranteed at any given instance to work. There were times when I seriously considered asking Has No Shame to bash me over the head with the end of a gun-stick so I could sleep through the night peacefully.

Wood Skin, Has No Shame, and I each grabbed a gun-stick. We were going hunting, since our supplies were running low. We thought it would be best to go and return as quickly as possible, meaning the stealthiest and quickest of us would be going. The others were ordered to stay inside. Slim Face and Echo observed that they would never set foot outside again, lest they meet Laughing Summer’s fate. Talks A Lot pointed out that they had, in fact, set foot outside on numerous occasions to escape Crying Loudly’s wails. We set out and did not hear the argument that was sure to ensue.

The forest was quiet, as usual. The animals were mostly tree-dwellers; that made the gun-sticks all the more valuable. They were much more accurate than bolts, and could kill much more easily, making a quicker and less painful death, I hoped. The only downside was that the blast would often scare away other prey.

We had gotten quite a few catches, which Wood Skin carried slung over his shoulder, when we heard a gun-stick shot in the distance. Wood Skin wheeled around in the direction of the spaceship, which wasn’t too far, but Has No Shame held up a hand and whispered, “It didn’t come from that direction.” Then he pointed ahead of us.

“Everyone should be back at the spaceship,” Wood Skin frowned.

“I think they are,” Has No Shame replied quietly. “It might be the others.”

“You really think they’d survive this long on a hostile planet?”

I frowned. My planet was not hostile–if you knew how to behave. If it weren’t for me, they would surely have died long before now. But I kept silent and listened to them converse.

Has No Shame said, “Of course they could have survived. They have guns. They can hunt. Just because they lost their minds doesn’t mean they don’t have survival instincts.”

Another shot rang out, this one closer to us. Has No Shame was right. It did come from somewhere in front of us.

“It could just be one person,” Wood Skin murmured. He and Has No Shame began to crouch to the ground slowly, as though they were trying to keep from making noise or show movement. “Get down,” he hissed to me, and I dropped immediately. Has No Shame rolled his eyes in a way that meant he was biting back a rebuke.

I heard crunching approach. “There’s more than one,” I whispered, pressing my ear to the ground. “It sounds like…five or six, maybe more.”

“Shit,” Has No Shame spat. He positioned his gun-stick to point straight ahead, anticipating an attack. Wood Skin did the same, and I followed suit, keeping my ear to the ground.

The footsteps grew closer and closer, then stopped. Several shots were suddenly fired, so close to us that my ears popped. I moved to leap to my feet and run back to the clearing. Wood Skin pushed me back down, his callused hand heavy on my shoulder. He stared intently into the trees, as did Has No Shame. Several more shots–and an unmistakable cry of agony.

A huge creature burst into our view, colors flashing desperately on its skin, silver blood streaming from multiple wounds. It screamed again–so horribly, I released my gun-stick to cover my ears. Then it crashed to the ground and convulsed, colors fading. Its eyes were wide open, staring just as No Wars, my village leader, had. Just as my mother had. The horror of that day suddenly gripped me–I couldn’t look away from the sight of the tree guardian lying dead before me.

Gun-sticks had killed the sacred guardian of the forest. I was hardly aware of the whoops and yells of triumph as aliens ran into the clearing, waving their gun-sticks over their heads. Shifting my arm so that I could not feel the cool, menacing metal of my own gun-stick, I swallowed repeatedly against the guilt that obstructed my throat. When that didn’t work, I focused intently on the new arrivals. They were a mess–clothes in tatters, covered in mud and sweat. Then I saw that some of them wore traditional pieces: a hat scarf here, praying beads on that one’s arm, a healer’s belt there…And several of them wore things that were unique to my village–bracelets given to daughters by their mothers, a baby’s sling, a bone star cycle counter. Hot rage coursed through my terse body, muscles trembling as I fought it, as I realized that these aliens had killed my family, and had stolen meaningful belongings from them as prizes.

The eleven aliens began to dance around the guardian, pulling all-too familiar hunting knives out of the confines of their clothes. They were going to eat the guardian!

I screamed and tried to push myself up. I had to stop them!

Wood Skin grabbed me and pressed his hand over my mouth, stifling my protest. I struggled, but he only held me tighter. The aliens had yet to notice us even though we were less than a meter away.

“You’ll get us killed,” he hissed into my ear. I watched helplessly as the first strip of sacred meat was shoved into a mouth full of rotten teeth. Silver trickled down the alien’s chin, and he let out a shrill whoop that seemed to incite the others to begin feasting. They converged on the prone guardian, and sickening sounds of tearing flesh made me feel faint. One plunged his knife into the guardian’s soft underbelly and gutted it as though it were an animal.

“Let’s get out of here while they’re distracted,” Has No Shame said. He began to scoot backwards, gun-stick still pointed at the group. Wood Skin also began to move, trying to awkwardly pull me with him. I came to my senses and went willingly. A bitter taste clung to the back of my throat, and I forced my stomach to hold its contents. There was nothing a mere child like me could do to avenge my family’s death.

When the men judged we were far enough away, we stood up and began to swiftly make our way back to the ship, not caring that leaves and sticks crunched loudly under our feet.

“We should move to another place,” Wood Skin said. “There’s no way we can keep hidden like this. And they are too unpredictable.”

“But where else would we go?” Has No Shame asked. “We don’t have much energy left to burn. Shit! Binder will probably tell us that it’s impossible.”

“We’ll make her make it work. We don’t have much of a choice, do we?” Wood Skin replied, raising his voice.

Has No Shame fell silent and glanced over his shoulder to see me falling behind, gasping for breath. My stomach had apparently decided it was a good time to renew its rebellion. Each swallow only made me feel sicker. Has No Shame slowed a little and put an arm around my shoulders. I gripped the back of his shirt, and he slowed until he was walking briskly, swinging his gun-stick at his side. Wood Skin must have heard our steps slow behind him, because he lessened his pace as well. The gesture calmed me, if only a tiny bit.

At our pace, we arrived back at the clearing, where the ship waited as loyally as ever.

“Shit,” Has No Shame said suddenly, halting in his tracks. Wood Skin and I looked at him in alarm. “We forgot dinner.”

I chuckled a little, but Wood Skin wore a serious expression. “Well,” he said, “we can’t go back for it now. We’ll have to make do with what we have already.”

“So, carrots and crackers. That’s good eatin’,” stated Has No Shame sarcastically.

Wood Skin rolled his eyes and kept walking. I followed, suppressing a giddy laugh despite the serious situation. I was glad that my stomach had ceased rolling at the welcoming sight of my home. When we reached the spaceship, the ramp lowered to allow our access. Someone had seen our approach from the window. We entered.

Talks A Lot bounded up to us excitedly, but his grin quickly faded. “Where’s the food?” He ducked his head from side to side as though to catch one of us hiding it behind us.

“A wild animal came and ate it,” grumbled Has No Shame, tossing his gun-stick into a corner, where it clattered against the others. The women shot him a look from their seats across the room, but luckily Crying Loudly was not startled from her sleep.

“Huh?” whined Plucked Flower and Talks A Lot in unison, looking at Has No Shame in disbelief. “Why didn’t you just shoot it, then? More meat!”

“He was just kidding,” I informed them. “What really happened–”

I was cut off with a sharp glare from Has No Shame and Wood Skin both. Wood Skin ever so slightly jerked his head, silently ordering me not to breathe word of what had happened out in the forest. I swallowed my words and winced as Crying Loudly began to do what she did best.

“Ugh,” moaned Plucked Flower, covering his ears. “She’s been crying all day!”

“What else is new?” Talks A Lot mumbled under his breath, severely put out by the lack of sustenance.

“Where’s Binder? I need to speak with her,” said Wood Skin over the baby’s screaming.

Fire Hair could be heard in the background, trying to shush her child, but it didn’t seem to be any use. Crying Loudly wailed on and on, and Wood Skin, pressing his fingers to his temples, wandered off to find the pilot of his ship.

My stomach growled. I looked around the kitchen, but there didn’t seem to be much to eat–crackers and carrots, as Has No Shame mentioned. The water supply was dwindling as well. A faint pop echoed in the distance–actually, it must have been very near if it could be heard through the thick metal walls of the spaceship. I moved to tell Has No Shame, but he was already at the window, peering out intently with his nose on the glass.

The others didn’t seem to hear anything; they were too preoccupied with Crying Loudly as she was passed from person to person in an attempt to calm her. Fire Hair was sitting with her head in her hands, whether from a headache, exhaustion, or struggling with her emotions I did not know. With an uncertain glance at Has No Shame’s serious face, I went to Crying Loudly and took her gently into my arms. She was squirming miserably in her papoose-like bindings, so I loosened them a bit and began to hum. Like Little Moons, Crying Loudly seemed to take to my voice and quieted.

Everyone gave a quiet sigh of relief. Laughing Summer snored away on a chair on the other side of the room. Fire Hair had dark rings under her eyes, and she leaned back with an exhausted but grateful look.

“Is everyone here?” Wood Skin asked as he entered once more, this time with Big Eyes trailing him.

I quieted my humming but otherwise continued. Anything, I thought, to keep the child silent for a while. Once again I reminded myself that there was something wrong with her, despite everyone’s claims that there wasn’t. No baby would scream so much if there was nothing wrong. I could not understand why no one was worried but me.

Slim Face shook Laughing Summer awake, and he snorted, looking around slackly and muttering incoherently. “What,” he mumbled before his eyes found Wood Skin.

Looking important, he began, “We’ll be leaving to a new location.”

The five who had not gone hunting voiced startled opinions and comments. Wood Skin held up a hand to quiet them. “I will explain more later, but–”

“Yeah,” Has No Shame said, still at the window, “I hate to cut your lovely speech short, but we need to get moving. Now.” He ducked at the sound of a gun-stick shot, and the glass shattered and rained down on his bowed head. “Shit!”

Crying Loudly woke and began to cry in my arms. Fire Hair leapt towards me and possessively took back her child, looking wide-eyed at the shattered window. It was a look not unlike the one my mother had worn when she had hidden me all those star cycles ago. Big Eyes looked to Wood Skin for orders.

“Start the ship,” he said. Big Eyes dashed away.

“Oh no,” muttered Echo, moving about and collecting the journals she had left lying out, clutching them to her bosom. “Oh no, oh no.”

More gun-stick shots, louder than before.

“Everyone, get down,” Wood Skin cautioned.

Has No Shame moved over to the corner closest to the door, where the gun-sticks had been stored. He grabbed one and crawled back to his position underneath the now broken window.

Slim Face, Little Moons, Laughing Summer, Talks A Lot, and I also grabbed a gun-stick each. Fire Hair, her baby still clutched tightly, Echo, and Plucked Flower were directed by Wood Skin to move into the next room, where they would be safer. There were no windows in that room.

Has No Shame cautiously stood up and peeked out of the window, then slowly raised his gun-stick and put the barrel on the ledge. After a moment of careful aim, he fired, and immediately ducked again. Shrill whoops and more fire could be heard outside. Has No Shame chuckled mirthlessly. “Right in the neck.”

A well-aimed, but possibly accidental, shot flew in through the window, shattering an overhead light. Little Moons shrieked in surprise, raising her gun-stick as though it would protect her. Slim Face reached up and raised the window she was under, squinting one eye shut. She and Has No Shame both slid their barrels out of their windows, then fired. More shrieks from outside.

“They’re running,” Laughing Summer whispered, breaking out in a grin. “They’re afraid of us.”

Has No Shame and Little Moons laughed, but hers was more of relief.

“Right then,” Talks A Lot joked, “Cheche and Nadim are our official new warriors! Nadim totally killed three of them–two with one shot! Cheche missed, though,” he added, giving the older woman a wayward glance. She scowled at him as Has No Shame chuckled proudly.

“Let’s go grab their gun-sticks before the others come back,” I said seriously. “The less they have, the better.”

Wood Skin nodded and pressed the button that lowered the door. Over his shoulder, he told Little Moons to see why Big Eyes hadn’t started the ship yet. Laughing Summer, Wood Skin, and I set out to retrieve the weapons, our own gun-sticks at the ready. Has No Shame and Talks A Lot aimed their gun-sticks out of the windows, covering for us.

I looked around nervously, suddenly realizing just how dangerous the loss of the guardian was. Without the guardian, there was nothing but my instincts to warn me of impending danger–and that wasn’t much. Then there was the fact that killing a guardian was the worst thing one could do. The balance had been upset. Opportunity for chaos was everywhere now. It was likely, it struck me, that the forest would die, as it was left with no protection.

Laughing Summer grimaced with disgust at the corpses, and kneeled down to pick up a gun-stick. I did the same, wiping some blood splatter off of the handle onto the grass, wrinkling my nose at the putrid smell that came off the dead alien. They smelled as though they had never bathed–which, I presumed, was likely true since they had arrived here. Wood Skin grunted as he bent, his fingers outstretched towards the gun-stick still held loosely in the dead man’s hands.

Or, he had looked dead.

As Wood Skin bent over him, the man’s eyes snapped open. Before Wood Skin could react, the barrel of the gun was pointed at his chest, the trigger pulled with a deafening bang.

“No!” Laughing Summer cried, lunging forward, but the damage had been done. Another shot rang out from behind us; blood splattered both the insane man and Wood Skin, who fell, clutching his abdomen. Laughing Summer then hoisted him up, as Wood Skin had previously done for him, and began to drag the man back to the ship. A sheen of sweat had already coated his waxy skin, his intelligent eyes dulling.

“Shit! Silver Tongue, get back inside!” Has No Shame screamed from his position in the window.

I saw movement in the trees. “There’s another one!” I called back to him, aiming my gun-stick into the trees. I fired–and missed.

I began to run towards the trees on instinct. I wanted to shoot the insane aliens dead, see their blood. Ignoring Has No Shame and Talks A Lot screaming behind me, I soon reached the tree line. Then I slowed, listening and looking around myself warily.

My finger pulled the trigger as a figure leapt out at me, and I hit my mark. With a yelp, the alien went down and was still.

My victory was short-lived. A hand snatched out and grasped my gun-stick. It was wrenched away from me, leaving me defenseless. I gaped at the alien that had appeared from seemingly nowhere, a lopsided grin on its face. More materialized from the trees, whooping and waving their gun-sticks. All of them wore sickening smiles, as though they were playing some kind of game.

With a sinking feeling, I realized that I had been baited.

Shots rang out, and several bodies began to fall. Has No Shame was still shooting, trying to give me an opening through the ring of aliens that surrounded me. The insane people didn’t seem to be aware that they were under attack; they danced around me in a ring as though celebrating. My heart was racing; there were many more than the group that had killed the guardian; there must have been at least thirty! I desperately tried to find some kind of opening that I could break through. The shooting had ceased as Has No Shame reloaded. Then I remembered that there was nothing left to use for reloading. We had been using the last of the stock for the hunting expedition today.

The spaceship suddenly shuddered and groaned as if a great weight had just burdened it. Then it roared to life, lights flashing on its underbelly. Only then did the crazy ones stop mid-dance and turn to look, lowering their gun-sticks to their sides. They still ignored Has No Shame, who had probably taken Talks A Lot’s gun-stick, and was shooting down the few that blocked my path.

Clouds of dust churned as the engines started–finally, I realized that Big Eyes had gotten the ship to respond. They were leaving!

“Silver Tongue!” called Laughing Summer, appearing at the doorway. The ramp was hanging open even as they lifted off, which probably was affecting the ship. He held onto the side of the opening to keep himself from falling out, and extended his other hand to me. “Run! Come on!”

I took off towards him, my feet flying faster than I ever thought they could. But the ship was ascending faster than I could run; I made a leap for his hand. Now I could hear the screams behind me. The insane aliens had realized what was happening, too. Shots missed me by mere inches, but I had somehow managed to grab Laughing Summer’s hand.

He groaned as he tried to pull me into the ship, but nearly lost his grip as a bullet struck the metal right above his head. I reached up with my other hand, scrabbling to find a grip on something as I felt myself slip through Laughing Summer’s hold. His fingers tightened over mine, so tightly it hurt.

The ship swung in mid-air, wobbling dangerously. The engine shuddered, protesting its awakening from star cycles of slumber. Laughing Summer pitched forward as the ship lurched again, only just managing to save himself. We were connected by only our fingertips, but still he held on. I could clearly see the fear in his eyes, and I was sure mine reflected it.

But I let go, only feeling a bit guilty at the look of horror that crossed his face. There was no way he could have pulled me up, I knew. It was my own fault for going into the trees, for not being quick enough.

My split-second musings were interrupted as I smacked hard into a tree branch; I hadn’t noticed that the ship had been drifting away over the forest. Winded, I fell to the ground. I felt my arm snap underneath me, but I grit my teeth and didn’t cry out. The crazies, as I decided to dub them, weren’t around–for now. I still had a chance to escape, to catch up with the others. I forced myself to my feet and raised my eyes to the sky.

I could hear the ship far above me, but could not see it. Its droning engine was fading as fast as my hope. The sound eventually gave way to crunching footsteps and the constant shrieks that accompanied the insane aliens.

I pushed myself to my feet and started in the opposite direction of their approach. It was difficult to focus on treading lightly due to the pounding in my skull, but I knew I had to try. I no longer had a gun-stick–no way to protect myself if I was caught. I had to flee. Behind me, they found my trail; I could hear them chasing. I knew the river from which we got our water was ahead. I raced toward it, pinning my useless arm to my side with my good hand. Perhaps if I reached it, I could cross it and they would not follow.

But when I arrived, I saw that the river was swollen from the earlier rain. Now it was too deep and the current too fast. I would have to follow the river until I found safety. If I reached a village, I could rally the tribe members and they would string their bows and hurl their spears. There was still a chance! I came to the riverbank and immediately turned left to follow the stream.

My breath came fast and hard, sweat poured into my eyes. My broken arm hurt terribly. The pain burned up and down my shoulder, jolted with each stride. The aliens were still behind me, spurring me on. I didn’t know or care whether I was leaving a trail for them to follow, or if I was being raucous. I could be imagining that I was being followed, for all I knew. I could hardly think.

I fervently hoped that the others had gotten away safely, that the engine hadn’t given out, that they hadn’t crashed into the forest. As long as my family was safe, everything would be okay.

All to suddenly, the river ended.

I skidded to a halt, all too aware of the shrill screams growing louder behind me. My eyes darted about desperately, looking for a place to hide, a place to go. The waterfall in front of me cascaded for what seemed like forever, and ended in a frothing white sea of foam. The sheer cliff face could not be descended with a broken arm. But the forest offered no protection, either. I looked over my shoulder, feeling sick, and saw that they had finally caught up. The one in the lead, wearing a nasty grin, raised his gun-stick as he squealed incomprehensible words.

I could not afford to think of consequences–I threw myself over the edge, and knew no more.

#

Part 5

The children gaped at Mangled One. Several young eyes flicked down to his twisted leg, then back up to him as he continued speaking.

“To tell the rest of the story,” the old man said, “I’ll have to switch tactics!”

There was a flurry of confused mumblings, but they died away when Mangled One waggled a finger in the air.

“It’s not much of a change, no need to fear,” he said. “I will tell it as though I were a bystander.”

“Why?” demanded Hallowed Birth, brow furrowed.

“Why not?” countered Mangled One. Then, as though to himself, he said, “Why, indeed? But no matter, thus it goes:”

#

A deep, throbbing hum reverberated through the air; bright lights shined down upon them, blinding them momentarily. Several villagers screamed in terror of the humongous gray beast that descended from the sky. It landed at the edge of the field, then shuddered and went still. A moment later, the huge maw on its underbelly dropped open with a hiss.

“What is that?” cried the voice of a frightened child, piercing the silence.

Mothers began to usher their children away, and uncertain men and young women stepped forward with spears raised. Harvest Moon, the village leader, moved to the fore of his tribe, head raised high. His eyes betrayed no fear, but he seemed taken aback when figures began to emerge from the mouth of the beast.

They came with strange sticks held at their sides, but with their other hand raised. They all looked different; some with brown hair, others with black, and still others with wheat or fire colored hair. All their eyes and skin tones were different as well. The strangers wore silver clothing like none anyone had seen.

One spoke in a garbling, throaty language, startling some of the villagers. Several shrank back with fear, while others adjusted their spears menacingly.

“Who are you?” spoke Harvest Moon in his most intimidating voice. He slammed the butt of his adorned spear to the ground as if to punctuate his demand. The strangers frowned and seemed nervous, whispering amongst themselves.

“They wish to know where they are,” Mangled One said quietly, limping up behind Harvest Moon. He leaned heavily on his crutch, slightly dragging his twisted leg.

Harvest Moons glanced at him in surprise, then returned his gaze to the strangers, who noticed Mangled One’s approach and watched silently. “These are the aliens you’ve told us about?” He seemed a bit bemused; the villagers had deemed Mangled One crazy when he had first started speaking of the aliens star cycles ago. No one had believed him; instead they privately joked that his head had been hit rather hard sometime before he was pulled from the river.

He nodded, a lock of long hair falling into his face.

“Mangled One,” Harvest Moon said, “you can communicate with these creatures?”

He nodded. “I picked up a bit from my time with them.”

“Ask them why they have come.”

Mangled One did so, and the aliens broke out into ecstatic grins. “He can understand us!”

“We’ve come to escape persecution,” answered the one who seemed to be the leader, shushing the others with a wave of his hand.

Mangled One limped forward, relaying their words to Harvest Moon between grunts. He halted when he reached the halfway point between the villagers and the strangers. This was so that he could translate easily between them, direction both of the side’s attentions to him rather than each other.

“Ask them what they want with us,” Harvest Moon called from his safe distance. He seemed greatly apprehensive, but knew he had no choice but to rely on Mangled One. It was a tough decision for him, but as the chief it ultimately fell to his judgment.

Mangled One asked, and the strangers replied: “We want to know where we are. We would also like to know if you have any information regarding the whereabouts of the previous colony. They seem to have disappeared several years ago.” Almost as an afterthought, one asked, “Will your kind be hospitable to us?”

Mangled One turned to Harvest Moon. He listened to him, something he had never done in the six star cycles Mangled One had lived here. He regarded him with a thoughtful expression.

“Mangled One,” he said at last, “you would perhaps know more than I what has become of the last–colony, as you called them. You can tell them that we are the Yellow Mud tribe, and that we will be as hospitable to them as they are to us.” It went unspoken that Harvest Moon would not hesitate to wage war if he believed his people to be in any sort of danger.

The leader of the aliens nodded at once, and he seemed grateful. “We can trade very valuable objects for any help you give to us,” he said.

“As for the others,” Mangled One said, shifting his weight, “I have not seen them for six star cycles. The last I saw of them was in the forest. I was running from them. They were not like you. They were shooting me and trying to kill me. They also killed my family.”

The aliens seemed stunned and speechless.

“Mangled One,” Harvest Moon called. He turned slightly to indicate that he heard, and was listening. “Will you please remain as translator for us?”

“Yes.”

The chief nodded, then looked as though he were about to add something. After what looked to be internal conflict, he added: “And you will teach us their language?”

Mangled One hesitated. “Yes, if you will learn.”

Harvest Moon broke out into a small smile. “If you do well, we will praise you, Mangled One. Your name will be heard all across our lands!”

He nodded, feeling his strength draining slowly. He was very tired. Crippled as he was, his strength was often fleeting. He was too tired to even feel the elation that he was finally believed, and completely missed the furtive stares he was receiving from quite a few villagers.

“You have a gift,” Harvest Moon said, still keeping his distance. “You should share it.”

The alien leader informed Mangled One that they would return with gifts, and left back to their spaceship. He sat down to wait for them and watched them go, and felt an ache deep in his chest for all that he had lost. Six star cycles was a long time.

#

****

#

Shortly after the arrival of the newest colony of aliens, Mangled One had found himself in a conference with the elders of the village. Never had any of them listened to his words so intently, enraptured by merely the sounds of his voice. The elders questioned him, only interrupted when they truly did not understand the strangers’ actions or words when he spoke of them.

It was perhaps the most Mangled One had ever spoken in those six star cycles. By the end of the night, for that was how long the conference lasted, his throat was raw and hoarse, and he could hardly make another croak.

During the meeting, it had been decided that Mangled One would be a teacher, and he would begin immediately, teaching the villagers of the customs and language of the aliens. Harvest Moon was adamant that they would not be at a disadvantage to the aliens should they attack, despite the reassurances from Mangled One that they were generally a peaceful people.

So it was that a pavilion was built within the week, and adults and children alike were sent in groups to begin their education. Until they had grasped Mangled One’s diligent teachings, he would act as translator between Harvest Moon and the aliens’ leader, Gregory. The children learned the quickest, and they had, after sneaking out to the alien encampment, made quick friends with the alien children.

Within a star cycle, Mangled One had finished his work. Every villager had at least a basic grasp of the alien language, and could communicate effectively. The barrier broken, the aliens and villagers began a constant trade, usually consisting of seeds or other valuables. Only minor squabbles broke out occasionally, but that was to be expected in everyday life, and no one thought much of it.

It was only when Great Yell came and informed Mangled One that a group of nine armed aliens had asked to see him that he was bewildered. Never had so many aliens asked of him at once. They usually preferred to send a couple to exchange words or barter for supplies, and even then he was usually left out of the dealings. Mangled One had reverted back to his state of the previous six star cycles, spending much of his time alone. Could something have happened?

He limped hurriedly up towards the front of the village, where visitors were made to wait until someone came to collect them. His eyes concentrated on the ground in front of him, willing his mind off of the stabbing pain in his leg that occurred whenever he walked. By the time Mangled One reached his destination, he was panting.

“There they are,” said Great Yell, stopping a ways away from the group. He nodded his thanks to her without looking up and continued forward with his eyes trained on his path, wondering what they could have wanted.

“Yes?” he asked in their language as he approached, then looked up. He drew in a sharp breath.

Eight aliens beamed at him, while the ninth stared down at his twisted leg curiously. Mangled One recognized each one of them, despite the fact that he hadn’t seen them for many star cycles.

“Silver Tongue,” Little Moons said in a cracked voice. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. Despite his ruined leg, he had grown taller than even Talks A Lot, who was still as lanky as ever. Plucked Flower had grown into a masculine young man. Laughing Summer and Fire Hair looked the same, though a few strands of their hair had grayed. Echo, Little Moons, Has No Shame, and Big Eyes all looked older, faces shriveled like dried fruit. Slim Face and Wood Skin were not present, and a sinking feeling told him all he needed to know.

“Is this Crying Loudly?” Mangled One asked, smiling down at the honey-blond haired girl. Her green eyes flicked up to his, then she buried her face in her father’s pants leg.

“It is,” Fire Hair choked out in a voice hardly above a whisper. “Oh, we’re so glad to see you again, Silver Tongue.”

“Shit, what happened to you?” asked Has No Shame, looking pitifully at his leg.

Mangled One smiled. “I landed feet first at the bottom. Luckily, the aliens that were foolish enough to follow me over the waterfall fell head-first. They were carried away by the current to who-knows-where, while I just managed to pull myself to the bank. The villagers here found and rescued me.”

“Waterfall!” Little Moons exclaimed. “That’s so dangerous!”

“But I’m alive,” he laughed. “And you are, too.” He felt a happy tear slip down his cheek. He hadn’t felt so happy in so many star cycles. “And I’ve missed you all so much.”

The nine of them drew Mangled One into a hug, tearful as well. He let his crutch fall to the dust, leaning heavily into their embraces.

“Will you come back with us?” Plucked Flower asked in a very different voice. “Our ship is just in the forest over there…You should rest your leg,” he added after a pause.

“There’s no help for my leg,” Mangled One laughed. “How did you come across me?”

“You’re famous,” replied Laughing Summer, tousling Mangled One’s long hair. “And so young, too.”

“You need a haircut,” fussed Big Eyes, looking as though his hair were an abomination.

He laughed, wiping his face with a hand. His arm was wrapped around Talks A Lot’s shoulder, keeping him upright as his crutch still lay cast aside. “Perhaps it is a little long,” he agreed, eyes shining. He was acutely aware of the stares from several villagers, namely Harvest Moon’s.

But he found that he didn’t care. Mangled One–Silver Tongue–was reunited with his family.

END

• Continue Reading

Published by Karl Rademacher on February 23, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 25, Issue 25 Stories, Stories

Wool Rider

by Carrie Naughton

Part I

James leaned against the kitchen counter and shook his head. “You cannot let her do this, Ronda.”

“Why the hell not?”

“She’s only six years old.”

“Exactly. So are the rest of ’em. Let her have some fun, James. It’s perfectly safe.”

“You can’t be serious. They make these children wear hockey helmets and padded vests. It’s like gearing them up for Desert Storm! Tori Helfert’s little girl dislocated her shoulder last week.”

“Well, maybe that’s because prissy little Eden Helfert just isn’t cut out for mutton bustin’.”

James finally stopped talking, and Ronda sighed with relief. She had him. About time. She was sick of arguing.

But he said, from between clenched teeth, “I can’t believe you. You’re like one of those psycho beauty pageant moms, except you’re trying to turn our daughter into some kind of rodeo warrior.”

Ronda snorted, and went back to emptying the dishwasher. “Really, James. You sound ridiculous. They ride sheep, for God’s sake. For six seconds. It’s stupid fun.”

“Our daughter cannot ride sheep. It’s patently absurd. You know why.”

“No. Actually I don’t.” Yes, she did know why. But when James glowered at her and used uppity pedantic phrases like patently absurd as if he considered himself Booker T. Washington reincarnated, Ronda always played the offensive.   “And Lulu is so excited. She hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

“You told her she could go?”

Ronda didn’t need to glance up at James to know that he was enraged. She could hear it crackling the air.

“No, I did not. But it’s all I can do to keep her pacified without actually consenting to this. That’s why I’m bringing it up now. The rodeo is Friday, and Lulu wants to go. Let me tell her we’ll take her. I need to sign her up before tomorrow afternoon.”

“Ronda.” James’ voice changed to a low growl. “Look at me.”

She complied, a pair of forks in one hand and a spatula in the other, on her way to the drawer where they kept their utensils. James’ eyes had gone amber, pupils dilated to deep black pools. His dark skin, gleaming with a sheen of sweat, rippled along his jawline as he clenched his teeth.

“What?” she barked, feeling her own hackles rise.

“You can’t sign her up. It’s tough enough trying to assimilate in this damn town. The last thing we need is -”

“It’ll be fine. She’s only six. You’ve seen her with the Nelsons’ chickens. And Jenny’s cat next door. Lulu’s just a pup. I want her to have some fun.”

“And riding these poor sheep in a muddy arena is supposed to be fun? It doesn’t sound like our kind of fun.”

“Well, not that PETA or your comrades at the University would approve, but yes. Fun.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Every kid in this town except for the Gaffners’ diabetic boy is signed up for this. Lulu wants to do it -”

“She isn’t like the other kids in this town -”

“- she wants you to be there to cheer her on. Hell, James, we both know she’s tough. She might even take home a ribbon.”

“Oh, if she rides, she’ll take home first place,” James puffed up, never one who’d diminish his daughter’s prowess at anything, whether it was piano lessons or shoe-tying.

Ronda could sense him bending to her will. She smiled, tossed the forks and the spatula in the drawer, and crossed the kitchen to her husband, holding out her arms. He pulled her to him, and he smelled of autumn leaves and woodsmoke and last night’s moon.

“You’ll see,” Ronda said, kissing his mouth before he could open it and say anything else. “Our daughter will be a champion.”

James laughed, conceding the fight. “Don’t make me regret this,” he murmured, and licked her neck.

“You’re gonna be late for class,” she pushed him away, but he held on to her for a moment and bit her earlobe. She almost jumped him right there. Fighting with James always did that to her.

After he drove off in their one vehicle, a beatup Honda Odyssey van, Ronda went to the bedroom and exchanged her robe and pajamas for jeans, a flannel buttondown, and Redwing workboots. She collected her hardhat and a plastic grocery bag of lunch food, locked the house and set out for the one mile walk to the construction site. After James had landed the assistant professor position with Boise State’s Biology Department and they’d moved to this town, Ronda couldn’t find work. It had been three months now, and even with her Masters in Business Administration and years of experience in public relations, no one was hiring. Or maybe no one wanted to hire her. Finally last month she’d fallen back on the work that had put her through college, before she’d met and married her husband. Construction. Her father had been a foreman for a leading contractor in Atlanta, and Ronda had worked on his crews since the age of fifteen.

The morning was cool and redolent with October aromas. And for Ronda, more than burning leaves and coming snow. She could smell the rot of a roadkilled squirrel two streets away: a red burble of guts and offal and asphalt. Three houses up, Greta Jameson had left her kitchen window open as she rummaged in her fridge, and Ronda could taste raw meat – hamburgers for dinner, kids – and the musty funk of Greta’s night sweat. Greta was a stay at home mom and even though she was sweet and matronly, Ronda couldn’t seem to warm to her. She could tell that Greta harbored a kneejerk disdain for Ronda – working class, black, and outspoken – that she tried mightily to both conceal and overcome. Maybe some day they might be friends, but Ronda doubted it. Greta’s kids were unruly little brats anyway.

Ronda turned her thoughts back to her own business. She would never admit it to James, but lately she’d been thinking seriously about staying in construction. There was something about swinging a hammer and driving a forklift that satisfied her in a way no desk job or press release ever could.

She laughed, strolling down the treelined suburban sidewalk. Unfortunately, Darryl and his buddy Chris were coming toward her down Shoshone Street, and they heard her. She caught their scents too late and cursed herself; how had she not noticed that cloud of cheap cologne and last night’s Jim Beam? Dammit to hell. She might have slipped past them and kept going down Teton, if she hadn’t laughed.

“Heeyyy, Ronda!” Darryl called out. “Heyyy, there lady,” he strutted a little, swinging his own lunch bag and quickening his pace to reach her. He had long legs and a rangy, looselimbed way of moving that was more akin to stalking than walking. Chris puffed along trying to keep up, looking slightly worried, as he should. Darryl pointed his narrow face at her and lifted his chin slightly in greeting.

“Morning, Darryl,” Ronda said, and kept going, head down, arms and knees pumping, walking as fast as she could without appearing to hurry.

“Where you goin’ so fast? Whyn’t you walk with us? We goin’ the same place, right?”

Ronda ignored him.   It was the only thing to do. Half a mile to go. He never bothered her at the site. He was annoying, but not stupid. It was 1996, not 1966, and even though she still had to listen to bad Anita Hill jokes, their foreman made it a point to remind all the new employees of sexual harassment laws. She tried not to think about how different her world might be if that weren’t the case.

“Rondaaaa,” Darryl sang out behind her. She thought he might be closing in, but dared not look back. He would give up after a few minutes, if past incidences were anything to rely on. Unlike some of the other guys, Darryl was all bluster and no muster, as her father might say. And Chris was weak. Still, knowing all this didn’t stop her from wanting to turn around and run Chris down like a deer and rip his throat out. What prevented her from this, she couldn’t say.

She breathed hard through her nose, licked her lips, and kept walking. The construction site was up ahead: chalk dust, iron, and the early morning fresh perspiration of men. Ronda focused on that and let her limbs carry her forward, faster than Darryl or Chris could keep pace.

She didn’t see the two teenagers on bikes rolling at her down the sidewalk as she started across the road. They were going the wrong way, and so she didn’t clock them until they were both right on top of her. Two greasy-haired boys in jeans and hoodies with snarls on their pimply faces. She finally smelled acne lotion and dirty boxer shorts in time to spring backward, pissed at herself for being off her guard this morning.

“Watch where you’re fuckin’ goin’!” The bigger boy yelled at her as he cruised past without braking, leaving a waft of adolescent boy-stank in his wake. The back of his hoodie advertised Pantera’s Cowboys from Hell tour, and Ronda thought: that’s right, welcome to my life in Idaho. Cowboys from hell.

The second boy followed, glaring at her with a scrunched-up face like an angry mutt and jabbing his middle finger in her direction. Neither one of them slowed down, and they surely would have plowed right through her had she not moved faster than a human.   For the second time in ten minutes, she laughed aloud. Something about the boy’s face and his simmering pubescent rage struck her as hilarious.

Pantera braked suddenly in the middle of the road, skidded out in a 180 and zeroed his beady eyes on where she still stood in a semi-crouch on the sidewalk.   Uh oh, she thought, meeting his soulless gaze. Target Acquired.

“What’s so funny?” Pantera demanded.

“Yeah!” Muttface chimed in, circling back on his dirtbike, standing on the pedals and staring her down as he coasted past, so close that Ronda took a step back and almost tripped over the curb. She thought of Lulu, and the possibility that her only child would some day attend school with cretins like Pantera and Muttface. Unacceptable. But what could she do right now?

Before she could respond, she caught Darryl’s boozy scent as he approached with Chris, upwind.

Back off, Ronda thought, and it took every ounce of will she had to batten down her wrath and replace it with meekness.

“I almost tripped over my own feet,” Ronda told the two teenagers, who were now cycling around her like a pack of hyenas, so near she could count their zits.

“Yeah you did,” Pantera muttered, and spat on the sidewalk.

“Yeah!” Muttface barked.

Ronda did not laugh again. Man, she wanted to. But being silent calmed her. Her heart began to beat at a subdued pace.

She took a step forward, intending to keep going. Down the street at the job site, Adam’s table saw whined and sparks snapped in the chilly air. So close.

But Pantera and Muttface followed, zigzagging around her on their bikes, swooping across her path and trying to cut her off. They laughed too now, especially when Pantera reached out and thwacked Ronda’s baseball cap off her head. It flipped backward and landed in the gutter on top of a matted drift of dead maple leaves, and Ronda felt a cool breeze tickle her forehead. She ignored the boys and squatted to pick up the hat – no way would she bend over in front of the little bastards. She’d pick up her hat and keep moving and they’d get bored soon.

She would have done that. Really, she would’ve. But after she put her cap back on, before she could stand, Pantera swerved on his next round, and his knee bumped her shoulder. Might’ve been an accident. Ronda lost her balance for a second, but she also lost her control. She was up on her feet before Pantera coasted past her, and she was in front of his bike before he knew it. She reached out and put her hand on the dirtbike’s handlebars and kicked at the front tire of the bike with her left workboot. The bike tires screeched with a sudden smoke of burning rubber, the bike flew backward like a discarded toy, and Pantera was launched forward into her arms. Ronda caught him easily in midair, and held him aloft with both her fists gripping his grimy hoodie. Dimly she heard the squawk of Muttface’s brakes and the rasp of his bike tires on the pavement as he came to a stop and goggled at them.

Pantera froze, dangling in midair like a dogtoy and gazing down at her with a priceless expression on his face – equal parts puzzled surprise and instinctive fear. She savored it, and then she saw Darryl and Chris rounding the corner.

“Don’t you ever mess with me again,” Ronda told Pantera in a low rumble. “Or I will feed that bike to you, piece by piece. You got that?”

She dropped him, and he fell in a heap on the street. He never answered her, and was up and on his bike in seconds, pedaling away with Muttface – who kept glancing frightfully over his shoulder all the way down Teton Street.

Darryl saw it all.

“Hey, Ronda,” he greeted her casually. “You always start off the morning beatin’ up the neighborhood kids?”

Ronda glared at him, but he wasn’t mocking her now. She sniffed, then wiped her nose. “You know those boys?”

Darryl nodded. “Wish I didn’t,” he replied, eyeing her with his usual unwarranted appreciation.

Chris hung back in apprehension. Ronda thought he would’ve dropped to the ground and showed her his tender white belly if she’d demanded it.

“I didn’t like their manners,” Ronda said.

“I don’t like their faces,” said Darryl, and when he laughed, she found to her surprise that she was laughing with him.   “You must bench 130,” Darryl added, probing her body with his eyes in an altogether new way. “Maybe 140? Don’t be askin’ me to lift nothin’ for ya when we’re workin’.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Ronda promised him. The three of them continued walking down the street. This was not a workday story she would be sharing with James that night. But she wished she could. She didn’t trust Darryl any more now than she did twenty minutes ago, but maybe he wasn’t as bad as her instincts had told her. He wasn’t wary of her, though, and that could prove either useful or dangerous, in the same way that Chris’ anxiety could work for or against her some day.

By now they had reached the site, a two story, three bedroom home that was coming together a week ahead of schedule. Ronda relished the hours of manual labor ahead of her. She needed to burn off her aggression. Darryl and Chris couldn’t possibly have noticed, but she was shaking with unspent adrenalin. Anyone like her in a two mile radius could’ve caught a whiff of it.

“Ronda!” Eric Walters, the foreman, called her over as soon as he saw her. “I need you to swing by the office and pick up a few things.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Take the truck.” He handed her the keys. “I walked off this morning and left the damn plans sitting on the worktable.”

Ronda almost blurted out well why don’t you take the truck and go get ’em yourself, but gritted her teeth and choked back the words.   Eric’s wife was three months’ into chemotherapy, and he had potentially more shit to deal with than Ronda could claim. Ronda always scented a pall of death and sickness on Eric and couldn’t ever stand closer than arms length. Still, he’d chosen her to run errands for him. Of course he had. The only woman on the crew, the only non-white, and who knew which of these made her the least necessary. No matter that half the boys spent the days when Eric wasn’t on site smoking weed and sitting around while she, Darryl, and a few of the other jerks actually got some work done. More points for Darryl, she realized.

Ronda took the keys from Eric.

“Becky’s got everything ready for you, and she knows you’re comin’.   Thanks, Ronda.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “Bring me a coffee, too?”

Ronda opened her mouth, not even sure of what she might say, and Eric laughed. “I’m kidding,” he told her.

Ha ha, she thought, but forced herself to give him a big smile. She saw a twinge of unease in his eyes before she pivoted away and headed for the big blue Ford F350 Super Duty that gleamed in the dirt driveway. She’d driven it before – oh yeah, not the first time Eric had sent her out as his errand girl – and captaining the big beast down the streets of Boise was perhaps the only reward for being a lackey.

She climbed up onto the plush bench, tossed her hardhat and her lunch sack on the passenger seat and slammed the door, leaning forward over the wheel without realizing it. To keep away from the gun rack behind her head. Eric’s hunting rifle was the only thing Ronda didn’t like about his truck. She didn’t like guns. Too many close calls. Gun oil smelled like terror to her. It made her think of home, the home they’d had to flee after James’ family had been –

Nevermind. No point in thinking about that. They were here now, and she’d decide how safe here was soon enough.

The rumble of the Ford’s engine shook the frame of the half-built house like an avalanche, and Ronda smiled with genuine pleasure. She didn’t like the diesel stink, but it was better than unwashed teenager or chemo reek. She threw the truck into Reverse and backed out onto the street. Adam straightened up from sawing a sheet of plywood and saluted her. She returned the gesture as she drove off.

The offices of Walters & Sons Construction occupied a doublewide trailer painted the color of mashed potatoes and set down cockeyed in a weedy lot near Overland and Vista. At least, Ronda decided, traffic was a concept that had yet to occur to Boise.   She made the trip to the office quickly, parked the truck as cockeyed as the trailer, and hurried up the steps and through the unlocked door.

Becky, the office manager, was typing away at her giant putty-colored computer keyboard while Scott stood at the filing cabinet stuffing manila folders into an already crammed drawer.   The crappy paint-splattered clock radio on top of the cabinet was blaring the opening chords of a Loverboy hit from ten years ago, and Scott was bobbing his head to the beat.

The inside of the trailer was stuffy and dusty and stank like a livestock pen. Even so, or maybe because of that, Ronda liked being here, a feeling she refused to scrutinize too intensely. She had no business at all enjoying the company of either Becky or Scott, but nonetheless, she did. Very much. She considered them, against all reason and instinct, her friends. And she knew they liked her, too. At first, it hadn’t seemed possible, because at first, both of them had been totally frightened of her.

Becky stopped typing without looking away from her squat, boxshaped computer monitor, and Ronda saw the young woman’s nostrils flare. There was a quick flash of nervousness that made her fleshy chin quiver, but it was gone soon enough and then Becky swiveled in her chair to acknowledge that Ronda was standing over her.   Ronda had time to think: the woman is almost the same shape as her computer, and then Becky smiled at her, slapping her hefty thighs and bouncing heavily in her chair.

“Hi, you!” Becky blurted. “Eric radioed in that you were comin’ by. Didjoo getta drive The Beast?”

Ronda nodded, and sat down on the corner of Becky’s desk. Becky rolled backwards a little and crossed her arms over her chest. She was a squat, rosy, doughy woman with wide blue eyes and a highpitched voice. She looked like she should be churning butter and harvesting tulips on a Dutch farm. She handled all the company’s bookkeeping and human resources with the help of Scott, who was a senior at Boise State majoring in something Ronda couldn’t remember. Something that James would no doubt consider useless like Art History or Womens’ Studies.   He rock climbed every weekend at places like the Black Cliffs and City of Rocks, and he was as muscled and tan as Becky was flabby and pale. The two of them got on like brother and sister.

Just then, Scott turned toward Ronda, started air guitaring to Loverboy, and singing along.

“I’m not a man…or machine…I’m just somethin’…IN BETWEEN….whoooaaaa whooaaaa ohhhh!”

Becky snorted with laughter, her neck quivering. Ronda remembered the first day she’d run into Becky outside of the office. It had been one blustery late September afternoon at Lulu’s school. Becky had been waiting to pick up her own child, Kara, and was standing with the other moms on the sidewalk outside the kindergarten wing. As usual, Ronda waited alone; none of the moms deigning to greet her, or even acknowledge her presence. They sidled farther away from her like a nervous herd. Except Becky. Only Becky had broken away from them and tentatively approached Ronda with wide eyes and fluttering hands and a hesitant, don’t-I-know-you smile. The porcine Becky had smelled at that moment like sacrifice and tears to Ronda, and she still wasn’t sure how she might have reacted had her Lulu not come running out of the door at that moment, grinning and giggling and holding hands with Becky’s daughter.

“Heyyyy Ronda,” Scott drawled. “What’s up?” He was still lazily air guitaring, his knobby long-fingered hands noodling around on an imaginary fretboard.

“Running errands,” Ronda replied wearily.

“Runnin’ for the boss man,” Scott nodded, riffing to the music.

“So did James say yes?” Becky asked in her girlish voice. “Kara won’t stop asking me if Lulu’s gonna do the mutton bustin’.”

Of course, Ronda had not mentioned anything about Kara being one of Lulu’s prime motivational factors for wanting to compete in the sheep riding tournament. As much as Ronda liked Becky, James absolutely did not. And he had even less regard for her offspring. They had weekly fights about Lulu going over to Kara’s house to play.

“He said yes,” Ronda nodded. “Took a little extra effort to wear him down, but Lulu’s in. I’ll sign her up today.”

“Oh yay!” Becky squealed, and bounced in her chair. “Kara’s gonna be soooo excited.”

“Lovin’ every minute of it!!” Scott belted out along with Loverboy. His brushy fu manchu style chinbeard – four inches long – flopped as he headbanged some more. Several times he’d innocently complimented Ronda on her ripped arm muscles and invited her to go rock climbing with his gang, but she’d declined. She came closer to accepting each time though, mostly to see if, working his way from crack to crevice on a wall, Scott did indeed resemble a mountain goat, as she suspected.

“Shoot me like a rocket…into spaaaaace!” Scott sang, and Ronda couldn’t hold back a laugh. Scott reacted less dramatically than Becky did when Ronda showed him her teeth, but still she turned away politely and started to ask Becky if she wanted to have lunch later that week. A voice in her head, one that sounded uncomfortably like James’ voice, said ask her if she wants to BE lunch later this week, here piggy piggy piggy.

The office phone rang, and Becky simultaneously held up a chubby finger to Ronda, meaning wait a sec, and pointed her other finger at Scott, meaning turn that music down.

“Walters and Sons Construction this is Becky speaking how may I help you?” Becky gulped out, the phone already in the crook of her cushiony shoulder so she could stuff envelopes while she talked.

Scott watched his boss, then smirked at Ronda. “I’m not into that whole multitasking thing like she is,” he shook his head. “I’m a one-task-at-a-time dude, you know? Singletasking! Lovin’ every minute of it!!”

“I hear that,” said Ronda. She began to pace around the furniture in the office’s cramped waiting room, which consisted of a battered naugahyde love seat and a cracked glass-and-brass coffee table that looked as if it still bore coffee rings from 1981. A few wrinkled copies of Time magazine lay strewn about, as well as the October issue of Rolling Stone. The magazine’s cover showed a picture of Tupac Shakur, who had died less than a month ago, on the very day Ronda accepted the job with Walters and Sons.

Scott was standing next to her. He had that way about him, unlike Becky, of moving in close and nudging her, then backing off, prancing around as if he wore climbing shoes instead of flipflops all the time. He glanced down at Tupac, looked into those somehow sad eyes as Ronda did the same.

“Too bad about that guy,” he said. “I liked that last album.”

“I liked them all,” said Ronda. Tupac had not been perfect, far from it, but he’d been real, and most times the only thing that had helped Ronda with her own reality had been his music. She had been so furious when he was killed, and shocked at her intense reaction when she saw it on the news. Lulu had been playing outside with Kara, and Ronda had locked herself in the bathroom, turned on the shower, and screamed into a towel so that James, who hardly appreciated any music that he didn’t hear on NPR’s classical hour, couldn’t hear her. She’d ripped the towel off the bar so hard she’d pulled the bar right out of the wall. James never used the guest bathroom anyway, so she’d fixed it before he ever had time to notice.

There was a book on the coffee table, too. Seeing it, she couldn’t believe her eyes hadn’t been drawn to it first. On the cover: the close up photograph of a silver-furred, yellow-eyed wolf. She locked eyes with the creature and a shiver of recognition ran through her. She read the cover. Barry Holston Lopez. Of Wolves and Men.

“What’s that book?” Ronda asked Scott, and he danced away at the sound of her voice, then darted back to pick up the book.

“S’mine,” he told her, now a bit uneasy, glancing from the image of the wolf to her face. “Readin’ it for my Lit of Natural History class. We’re gonna have a big debate.”

“Debate?” Ronda stared at him, and Scott backed away, mistaking her confusion for something else…malice?   Hunger?

“You know, about the issue,” he said, frowning at her. He put the edge of the paperback against his bottom lip as if he wanted to chew on it, then jerked it away. “The wolf reintroduction, man. Like, sixty gray wolves from Canada that they just put back into the wild last year, here in Idaho – central Idaho – and down in Yellowstone? Cuz you know, the wolves have been extinct in the Lower 48 since, like, the 1930’s. And now the Feds are all hey let’s put ’em back, even though the first cow they killed, every redneck and rancher in a hundred mile radius is goin’, open season, dude, let’s shoot us some wolves!”

“No,” Ronda shook her head.

Behind them, Becky jabbered into the phone, “I’m sorry but Eric’s out at a job site right now. I’ll be happy to tell him everything we just discussed and -”

“No,” Ronda repeated. “What’s there to debate? It’s illegal to shoot wolves,” she told Scott. Thinking, that’s why we moved here, dammit. Because there’s safety in numbers. And protection.

Scott was watching her, round-eyed, and now he actually was nibbling on the corner of the book. He looked so ridiculous with his square teeth pressed into the wolf’s fur that Ronda didn’t know whether to rip the book away from him or bite him. The whole situation was ridiculous. It was patently absurd.

“Maybe…maybe you should come to the debate,” Scott suggested, tucking the book under his arm. He raised his eyebrows and seemed so harmless and docile in that moment that Ronda felt a surge of guilt. “Doesn’t your husband…isn’t he in the biology department? Maybe he’s goin’.” Scott fidgeted, shifting on the balls of his nimble goatfeet.

“He probably is,” Ronda said, trying to make her voice sound less like a growl.   James had done a great job of portraying the wolf reintroduction as something that everyone in Idaho cheered for.   How had she been so stupid to believe him? Or had he really believed moving here might be a good idea? She thought of Eric Walters’ gun rack, and a low whine almost slipped out of her throat.

“What’re you guys talkin’ about?” Becky asked. She was off the phone, and snacking from a package of powdered donuts. Ronda turned, and Becky had white sugar dusted all over her chin and the front of her navy blue blouse.

“Books and stuff,” Scott answered, before Ronda could say anything. “Hey, Becky, I almost forgot, can I put in for some time off around Thanksgiving?” Scott skirted around Ronda and went back to stuffing folders into the filing cabinet, taking Of Wolves and Men with him and not looking back at Ronda.

Ronda watched him slip by her and wanted to reach out, yank on his goatee, and chew his face. She wanted to pull him into her arms like a lost child.   Instead she began to pace the room again, letting out a long exhale. She needed to leave and get back to the job site. She was feeling too….volatile.

“Sure thing, hon,” Becky told Scott. “You know we’ll be closed day of, and day after anyway. Ronda, you got family comin’ for the holidays? You goin’ anywhere?”

“No,” Ronda answered. Everyone in our family is dead. Our pack is dead. “It’s just us,” she said.

“Quiet day at home with James and Lulu? Big turkey?” Becky smiled warmly.

Ronda didn’t know what to do. She wanted to hug Becky. She wanted to claw her soft cheeks.

“Yeah,” Ronda choked out. “Hey – where’s that stuff for Eric?”

“Oh – I almost forgot, I’m so sorry. I got on the phone and then that man was so rude to me.” She sighed and heaved herself up out of her chair, waddled around the front of the desk to the kitchen table that Eric always used to unroll blueprints and planning maps. “Lemme see….it’s this thing…and this….and that…” she handed Ronda a cardboard blueprint cylinder, an Ace Hardware bag full of drywall nails, and Eric’s plastic forty ounce Conoco coffee mug.

“Did he want coffee?” Becky asked, and Ronda almost flung the mug at Becky’s head.

“He asked for it, but he was joking,” Ronda grumbled. “So no.”

“Ronda,” Becky said quietly, standing her ground but trembling a little. “You okay today?”

Ronda could sense Scott listening, even over the thrum of the radio. It was Bad Company now. ‘Runnin’ With The Pack.’ Ronda found that she wanted to hear Loverboy again. Rewind and start this whole morning’s tape over.

I’m not a man, or machine, I’m just something in between.

She reached out slowly and touched Becky’s white chin with her own brown fingertips. Becky froze.

“You got powdered sugar all over you,” Ronda said, dusting her off.

“Oh,” Becky blushed and looked down at her blouse, starting swiping at herself. “What a pig,” she chastised herself.

Ronda was already at the door. “You’re not a pig,” she said, wanting so badly to believe her own words.

Becky smiled shyly and mouthed okay, but Ronda didn’t think Becky believed her either. Behind the desk, Scott waved one of his files in a goodbye gesture.

“Have fun with the boys today,” Becky told Ronda.

“Lovin’ every minute of it,” said Ronda, and closed the door on their laughter.

She drove a mile down the road and then pulled the Beast over into the parking lot of a 7Eleven.

Her lunch bag was still on the passenger seat, and she grabbed it and hauled it into her lap and pawed through the contents. Cold chicken in tinfoil – two drumsticks and a thigh. Three big pieces of beef jerky. Saranwrapped half of a grilled T-Bone from last night’s dinner, and a Ziploc full of shaved ham. A package of sliced deli roast beef, and a bag of baby carrots. Ronda tossed the carrots aside, unwrapped the chicken and opened her mouth wide.   She ravaged the drumsticks, pulled the meat off the bones with her teeth until nothing was left but gristle, then she devoured the thigh. She ripped into the steak next, barely chewing it before swallowing. Then the roast beef, so rare she sucked bloody juice from the bottom of the package. She ate the jerky last, tearing the tough hunks of it apart with her greasy hands. She couldn’t eat the ham. She had to push it aside. The ham smelled too much like Becky.

When she’d finished, there were gnawed bones all over her lap and the floor of the cab and bits of chicken flesh stuck to her jeans. She hastily cleaned up the debris and put it in her plastic bag with the Becky – with the ham – and the carrots, wiping her hands and face on a used napkin she found in Eric’s cup holder.

Ronda belched. She felt calm again. She drove back to the job site.

Part II

Ronda had hoped, though she would never admit it, that James would find a way to avoid going to the rodeo with them. But he was not the kind of father who would miss a single event in which his daughter participated. Tonight, as he drove them north to the town of Emmett and the Gem County Fairgrounds – Lulu jittering and chattering excitedly in the backseat – he could barely conceal the mixture of unease and loathing twisting across his face. Ronda could see him trying ardently to temper his disdain with pride and enthusiasm for Lulu, even as he pulled their van into the massive unpaved lot and piloted it through the crowds, dust clouds, and horse trailers.

“Get outta the WAY,” James grumbled, his huge shoulders hunched over the wheel. A mother with a stroller and two young boys toodled past them, moving too slowly for James. “We’re gonna have to park out in the back of beyond,” he added.

“I can walk, Daddy,” Lulu announced. “I got my pink boots on tonight so I can walk.”

“You bet, sweets,” James responded. Ronda knew he’d be carrying Lulu within two minutes. But she had indeed worn her pink cowgirl boots, and her sparkly pink cowgirl hat.

“Cuz I’m a big girl and I’m’onna ride da sheep, right?”

“You certainly are,” James said, gritting his teeth. Ronda elbowed him and he tried to contort his face into a smile. A sheepish smile, she thought grimly. He failed. James, when he smiled, could only achieve a wolfish leer.

“I’m a ride a sheep and I’m a get firssss place!!”

“That means you gotta hang on, then,” Ronda reminded her. “Give that sheep a big ‘ole hug and hang on tight.”

Lulu laughed with delight. “Hug the sheep!” she cackled, banging her little hockey helmet on her knees and kicking the back of Ronda’s seat with her pink boots.

“Lulu, don’t kick the seat, baby.”

They pulled in between a Buick wagon and a Cadillac Eldorado, the Honda van jouncing over muddy ruts as James nudged it into the narrow space. Lulu had already unbuckled herself from her carseat, but Ronda hesitated before opening her door, and noticed that James did too.   They both knew it would be near unbearable. The noise, the odors, the people, the animals.

“Lesss goooo!!” Lulu stood up and poked her head over the console and into the front seat, her large dark eyes accusing first her father, then her mother. “Hurry UP!”

“Okay buckaroo,” James said, and Ronda snorted. Lulu giggled, that highpitched girly chortle that sounded half delightful and half false cheer every time.

Ronda opened her door and didn’t take a breath until she’d yanked open the rear slider to let Lulu out. When she did inhale, it felt like a punch in the face. The rodeo grounds, even all the way out here in the back forty, swirled into a dusty tornado of smells. Fried food, perfume, diesel exhaust, horse shit, sweet hay, livestock, piss-stained port-o-lets, stale beer. Somewhere, fresh blood. Ronda gagged, and then her stomach rumbled and she began to salivate. James came around the back of the van and as she saw his face she knew she wore the same expression. Hungry, pained, alert. He had been so worried about Lulu, who was now bouncing in her cowgirl boots and waving her padded gear and helmet for Ronda to carry.   Ronda took it from her and looked again at James.

Our daughter’s just fine, she thought. How are WE going to get through the next few hours?

They locked the van and started to make their way down the nearest weedy aisle, falling in line with the rest of the throng straggling toward the arena. Ronda had Lulu’s gear slung over her left arm, Lulu’s hand in her right, and James had the other side. Lulu swung between them, kicking up brown dust puffs with her tiny bootheels. The crowd parted easily. People glanced around nervously and gave the three of them a wide berth. Lulu moved forward and cut a path through the herd, tugging her parents along behind her.   The bright stadium lighting turned the night into day, and Ronda could hear live music, a bass thump and peal of electric guitar. The press of bodies moving close and then backing away made Ronda’s pulse pound in her ears.

“So how does this actually work?” James asked Ronda under his breath. Until now, he’d refrained from discussing any detail about the Mutton Bustin’ competition with her. Ronda was glad. It was too late now for him to deem any part of this unacceptable and pull Lulu out of the competition. The child would raise a screaming fuss, loudly and publicly, and James would never endure that. Partly, Ronda knew, because of his image in the academic community – though she doubted that any of those vegan liberals (Darryl’s words, not hers) from the college would stoop to attend a rodeo. But also because James loved Lulu and could not be so cruel. Ronda didn’t care to consider which part outweighed the other.

“All I know is…we check her in – there should be a table near the entrance. And then I’m sure they’ll send us to the chutes. They use the same chutes that the rodeo riders do – the sheep are waiting in the chutes as each rider comes up. When it’s her turn, her sheep’s in the chute, we’ve gotta lift her over the fence, and there’s a man who’ll put her on the back of the sheep just before they open the gate. And then she just – she hangs on for dear life, bareback, there’s no saddle. Really I think the sheep just runs really fast and takes sharp turns and tries to shake her off, and she’s gotta hold on. For three seconds. Or six. I can’t remember. Or until she gets bucked off or falls off. The clowns keep the sheep from chasing after her or trampling her -”

James made a scoffing sound at this. At all of it, really.

” – and the clowns herd the sheep back into the pen. And that’s it.”

“I’m not gonna fall off!” Lulu protested. Another child walking nearby with his mother flinched at the sound of her voice and shied away. He had black and white paint on his face – whiskers, cat eyes. Ronda remembered that there was a KISS tribute band playing tonight. She began to see more kids – and even some adults…good God, she would never understand that – with their faces painted to look like KISS members. Fake animals.

Ronda turned away. James was staring at her. Don’t say it, she willed. But then she raised her eyebrows at him, as if daring him to say out loud what they were both thinking. This is the most ridiculous, dangerous thing we’ve ever let Lulu do.

“She gets a souvenir trophy and a commemorative water bottle, just for competing. And a belt buckle if she wins,” Ronda informed James, who shook his head.

“I’m gonna WIN!” Lulu trumpeted. The crowd parted before them in a widening circle.

“I’m sure riding a terrified sheep is its own reward,” James offered, and was duly ignored by both his wife and daughter.

The crowd began to coalesce into a few loosely organized lines as they approached the gates. Ronda watched people’s faces as their bodies jostled closer and closer. All those faces, their pale skin bluish in the glare of the big lights. All those sheep.

“Daddy, pick me up,” Lulu warbled. James complied, and Ronda sidled closer to them, feeling protective. Their own faces, dark and alert, had no bluish cast, but instead a fierce glow. Lulu’s eyes blazed beneath her cowgirl hat.

Bottlenecking through the gates became a nightmare crush of limbs and breath and hair. People all around seemed to be hurrying to get through and get away. Ronda’s heart thumped in her chest so hard she could barely swallow. She could taste the cloying reek of garbage from underneath the stands, and the buzz from the KISS cover band’s amps grew louder and louder until it felt like a chainsaw in her brain.

LICK IT UP!   LICK IT UP! WHOOOAAA OHHHHH OHHHH! DO IT RIGHT NOW!

James leaned down and put his lips to her ear. “The poetry of this song is simply sublime,” he mumbled, and Ronda relaxed, laughed. He had that skill. He could rein her in. He nuzzled her jawline, and Ronda smiled, then caught the eye of a young woman standing by the snack bar. She was frowning at them. Ronda looked away.

“There’s the booth.” Ronda pointed across the way to a long table with a banner that read WELCOME WOOL RIDERS!

They had to purchase tickets first, which seemed to go quickly. That was a relief, considering how antsy Lulu was starting to get. Ronda picked up on it and couldn’t stop watching their backs, every so often locking stares with someone who narrowed eyes at them. She wanted to find Becky and Kara. She dreaded to see Darryl. Or even Pantera and his mutty friend. Everyone around them radiated a simmering hostility tinged with unease. Ronda inhaled slowly through her nostrils, trying to pick up Becky’s scent as she followed James. Lulu gazed back at her from over her dad’s shoulder as he pushed through the turnstiles and into the open space near the bleachers.

Suddenly Ronda could smell nothing but the low musk of dumb beast. They were passing the sheep pens.

James stopped first, and Ronda pulled up next to him. They stared down at the animals. These were Ram Bouillet sheep: massive, girthy creatures with wide backs of matted wool. Their eyes lolled and their long white snouts lifted to scent the air. Ronda had a moment to think, we’re gonna let our baby ride one of these things all by herself?

“Hello sheepies,” Lulu called out cheerfully, waving a hand over them. One by one the sheep pricked up their ears and began to shift in the pen, stirring up clods of dirtpacked straw and a big, oily stink. They began to move away, at first slowly, and then with real panic, bleating and grunting and pushing against each other. People began to congregate against the steel gates, peering at the scene.

“What’s got ’em so spooked?” A man behind Ronda spoke.

Several of the closest sheep staggered backward, raised their tails and let fly with a barrage of brown pellets.

“Mommy, those sheeps poopied!” Lulu observed. One of the bigger animals opened its mouth and brayed loudly. It sounded like a scream. Suddenly the rest of the sheep were screaming, too.

“Let’s go,” Ronda told James, and prayed that Lulu wouldn’t make a fuss as they carried her away. The screams of the sheep sounded red, and their fear hit the air around Ronda like a slap.

“We’re gonna go get you signed in so you can ride your sheep,” James said to Lulu, in a preemptive attempt to distract her. “Are you ready?”

“Ready!” Lulu cheered. Ronda poked her in the tummy and she snickered, showing her teeth. “Mommy where’s Kara?”

“I don’t know, honey. They might already be here. I think Kara and her mama are meeting us near the chutes.”

They stood in a short line behind a little boy wearing leather chaps and a petite girl with a fake mohawk dressed in what looked like full body armor. Ronda took the opportunity to help Lulu into her padded vest and shin guards, still carrying the helmet. She knew Lulu would demand to wear her cowgirl hat as long as possible.

“Well, hello little lady,” the man behind the table greeted Lulu. “Are you ready for the ride of your life?”

Lulu became shy, and somehow smaller. She said nothing while enduring the process of checking in. She was weighed, measured, and deemed appropriate, though the woman behind the table did not smile as genuinely as the man.

“Okay, sweetheart, you’re all set now. Are you excited? There’s no reason to be scared of those sheep, you know.”

Now Lulu tilted her head up to look at the man. “I’m not scared of the sheepies,” she told him. “The sheepies is scared of me.”

“Ohh,” said James, “oh ho,” he chuckled, placing his hands on Lulu’s shoulders and steering her away from the table. Ronda didn’t look back.

They had given Lulu a nametag and her prize water bottle – which, once claimed, she refused to relinquish. James and Ronda were instructed to take their little wool rider around the walkway to the chutes. Ronda and James got nametags, too, theirs on lanyards.

Over here, the air smelled like nacho cheese and Marlboros, with a topnote of manure. The manure stench intensified as they skirted around the bull pens. One of the bulls, a giant of a creature with a shitcaked ass, swung its massive head around to watch the three of them as they moved by. James stared it down and the bull emitted a long, low moan and kicked at the back of its stall. Lulu was grinning at it with all her teeth showing as they passed, and when James noticed this he shifted her to his opposite hip.

The KISS cover band – they were called Strutter, according to the fiery letters sparking above the stage at the opposite end of the arena – had launched into a song Ronda had never heard before, but was probably called ‘Crazy Crazy Nights,’ since that seemed to be the only verse in the chorus. The volume level was intense and overpowering, rolling out across the empty arena like a shockwave. With almost every power chord, the stage erupted in a fury of pyrotechnics, and Ronda coughed as the burning fumes reached her. James hurried them around the gates’ curving arc and toward the base of the opposite stands. They found the chutes coordinator, were hustled down to their assigned chute, and waited. Lulu was second in line, behind the boy with the chaps, who had the requisite KISS facepaint and the ersatz baditude to go with it. Ronda thought she recognized him from Lulu’s kindergarten class, but had no idea what his name might be.

When ‘Crazy Crazy Nights’ ended in a burst of applause and sparks, the boy turned to Lulu and gave her a very adult nod of greeting, thumbs tucked in his waistband.

“We got one more song and then I’m next,” he said. Now he looked slightly agitated.

“Okay,” said Lulu, unconcerned.

“Them sheep are really big,” the boy said. He was a sad puppy in his facepaint.

Lulu said nothing.

“This my first time,” he added.

“Me too,” Lulu allowed.

He gave a tight nod again, then darted over to a man standing nearby, who was talking to the chute handler. The man stooped and talked to the boy, and Ronda listened. She knew James was listening, too.

“You said you wanted to ride ‘im,” the man jerked a shoulder at the sheep waiting in the chute “So you’re gonna ride ‘im, mister.”

“But Dad, I don’t like it. He looks mean!” The boy shrank back, and gave Lulu an ashamed glance. Ronda could almost taste the kid’s fright.

“You’re not backin’ out now, d’you hear me?” Dad hissed.

“Yeah. Oookayy.”

James leaned over to Ronda and whispered, in mockery of the father, “You ride that sheep or you’re a disgrace to your family, boy! Dishonor!”

Ronda burst out laughing, and earned an evil look from the boy’s dad.

“Who’s that boy, Lulu?” Ronda asked.

“Justin,” said Lulu. “He’s scared of everything. Mommyyy, where’s Kay-rahhh?”

Ronda searched for Becky and Kara, and spotted them waving, three chutes back near the holding pens. They must have walked right by. Ronda couldn’t believe she’d missed picking up Becky’s scent. Kara must be further down the rider roster. Ronda hoisted Lulu up onto her hip and they both waved back. Kara, too, wore her sparkly pink cowgirl hat. She had a round face and a snubnose, like her mother.   She seemed distracted by the vast crowd filling the stands behind and above them.

Standing with Becky’s husband was Darryl, and he was eyeing Ronda with an intense scrutiny that made her scalp prickle. She felt her nostrils flare and her lip begin to curl, but she hid this by quickly wiping at her nose. Darryl cocked his head, long hair hanging in his face. He favored her with a wily smile, and then turned away.

As soon as the next song began, the audience began to stomp the boards and clap in time with the frenzied beat. There was something primal about it, like a ritual enacted before a slaughter.

BOOMclapBOOMclapBOOMclap

Ronda could sense the sheep shuddering in the chutes.

I….WANNA ROCK AND ROLL ALL NIIIIIGHT….

James made a point to fuss with Lulu’s gear and help her put her helmet on, but Ronda knew he was mostly trying to distract himself from the appalling music. Herself, she couldn’t help but enjoy it, and wondered if Scott was somewhere in the stands, air guitaring with his friends.

As soon as the song ended, and the applause died down, the rodeo announcer’s voice broke through over the PA.

“Hello ladies and gentlemen, cowboys and cowgirls, buckaroos and buckarettes, welcome to the Gem and Boise Counties Rodeo! Put your hands together for Strutter!! That’s right! What! A! Showwww!!”

James put Lulu’s pink cowgirl hat on Ronda’s head, where it did not fit at all, and applauded with far too much enthusiasm for the rock band. Lulu jumped up and down between them, clapping ferociously.   Ronda waved the pink hat in the air and then handed it back to James.

“Are you ready for some MUTTON BUSTIN’?!!!” The announcer bellowed, and the crowd erupted. The announcer kept yammering. “We’ve got twelve brave boys and girls ready tonight for their chance at glory! These little wool riders have got the guts and the skill and the helmets and they aren’t afraid of a little rough-and-tumble! They’re rarin’ to go! Let’s hear it for our first rider, in chute number one, Cody Thomas!! CODYYYYY!!!”

Ronda and James both craned their necks. Lulu practically crawled up James’ leg, and he picked her up and swept her atop his shoulders, padded gear and all.

Down at chute number one, Cody Thomas’ dad was peptalking his son, who had much greater enthusiasm than Justin. Ronda couldn’t see over the gate, but through the bars she could make out Cody after he was hoisted in the air and lowered onto a big grey sheep’s back. Cody leaned forward as if to give the sheep a bear hug, wrapping his arms around the creature’s neck. And then the bell rang, the chute gate opened, and the sheep plunged into the arena, running for its life.

Cody hung on for a good three seconds, flopping around like a doll stapled to the sheep’s back. Ronda thought the kid might make it for the full mark, but the sheep swerved so hard to the right that the little boy lost his grip and went rolling off to land face first in the dust.

“Daaaamn,” James exhaled, sounding both impressed and disgusted. “It’s just 1-2-3, eat dirt.”

Cody Thomas rolled over and came up smiling, raised his hands in the air like a miniature rodeo rough stock champion. Two garishly painted clowns chased the frantic sheep around the arena while a third clown in baggy pants and rainbow suspenders hustled Cody back to the chute. The clowns finally got the sheep back in the pen, and Cody climbed up the rail at the far side to high-five his dad. The bleachers exploded with applause and whistles.

“Yessir, that was Cooooody THOMAS! And we are off to a very impressive start, ladies and gents!”

And so it went, with unsettling speed – an assembly line of kindergarten competitors – until it came to be Lulu’s turn. Justin had survived despite his terror, but not without tears. Ronda wanted to give the kid a high five herself, since it seemed that his own dad wasn’t going to, after the kid, his face a heartbreaking collage of paint, snot and tears, hobbled back to the chute, escorted by a capering clown.

“Justin did OK,” Lulu had commented, in a strangely mature tone that indicated she would most certainly do better.

All of sudden, Ronda hesitated. A warning voice spoke up in her mind. You can’t put this child in that pen with that sheep. It’s not right. It’s against nature.

The chute handler called them over. James let Lulu tumble down expertly from his shoulders.

“Let’s goooo,” Lulu pushed at Ronda’s leg. Her sharp teeth glinted, behind the rather sinister grill of her hockey mask, and she stared up at Ronda with a hunger that made Ronda feel unsettled and triumphant all at once.

James was eyeing Ronda. “This was a phenomenally bad idea,” he whispered, alternately squeezing the prize water bottle and kneading the little pink cowboy hat in his big hands.

Of course, he had to say it.

“Well, it’s too late now,” Ronda spat back. She didn’t even hear the announcer call out Lulu’s name, as she lifted her daughter up and over the gate and the big man in the plaid shirt and suede vest grabbed Lulu under the armpits and dangled her above the sheep’s broad back.

“You ready, Lulu?” the man in the vest asked.

“I’m ready, boys!” Lulu sang out, and all the men on the fence chuckled.

The sheep waited placidly, ready to accept its fate. Perhaps it was an old veteran of Mutton Bustin’, long accustomed to wool riders. There was a split second in between the moment Lulu settled onto the sheep’s back and wrapped her arms around its neck, and the moment when the starting bell clanged. In that pause, the sheep let out a mournful, horrible, bleating shriek. The chute handler looked startled, and leaned forward, to do exactly what, Ronda had no idea. But it was too late. The gate whammed open and the sheep bolted forward, taking Lulu with it, her pink boots digging into its woolly haunches.

“GO LULUUUU!!” A little girl whooped, and it was Kara, standing up with her legs astride the pipe-rail gate just down the way, waving her chubby arms and clapping awkwardly while her mom gripped the waistband of her jeans to keep the kid from toppling into the ring. Kara’s fluffy blond curls spun out around her round face in a luminous cotton-candy cloud that sparkled in the rodeo lights as she tracked Lulu and the sheep’s chaotic route with wide eyes.

Even James was hollering now, cheering on his daughter with a ferocity and volume that a few clapping onlookers heeded by shuffling quickly away. Ronda, finally realizing that she’d been hanging back out of – what? embarrassment? trepidation? – stepped to the gate and climbed up so she could see.

Her baby girl was out there, flying along on the sheep’s back, circling the edge of the arena as the clock ticked the seconds and the audience began to count along with it.

“FOUR!! FIVE!! SIX!!”

The buzzer went off, and still Lulu hung on. The crowd went nuclear, in a riot of booted thunder, stamping the bleacher boards and hollering like bloodthirsty Romans at a gladiatorial throwdown.

“Laayyydeez and Gentlemen! We have a new frontrunnerrrrrr! Oh, look at Miss Lulu there, she’s STILL hangin on! Can you believe it folks? INCREDIBLE!!”

“EIGHT!! NINE!!”

Ronda’s nails screeked against the metal of the fence rail, and she was leaning so far out she almost flipped over.

The announcer laughed nervously into the microphone. “I think we need the clowns in there. This little rodeo queen ain’t gonna quit!”

“LULUUUU,” Ronda cried out desperately. “Time to let the sheep go, honey!!”

The sound of the crowd a rampage now, Ronda’s eardrums on fire, throbbing, her heart racing.

She couldn’t hear her own voice. She couldn’t hold back. She howled. She wanted to jump the fence. She want to throw her head back and laugh. She wanted to tear the sheep to shreds and feed Lulu the bloody pieces from her mouth. She howled again, and when she inhaled, she tasted blood and dust and realized she already had one leg over the railing, ready to leap into the pit. But Lulu had heard her. Of course she had. Lulu had good ears. She listened to her mama.

Lulu dismounted the sheep, where every other child had been violently thrown. Dismounted like she’d just finished practicing dressage and the sheep was her favorite stallion. Of course the sheep veered off instantaneously with a flutter-lipped bray of freedom, but Lulu kept on walking casually back toward Ronda and James. Just strolling along, waving like a princess, completely unfazed, while the rodeo clowns darted past her in frantic attempts to dog Lulu’s panicked sheep back to the pen.

The sheep almost knocked Lulu down in its wild run down the center of the arena, and the crowd let out a collective gasp, then rowdy applause when Lulu smacked its dirty butt on the flyby. The sight of Lulu’s tiny dark hand walloping the sheep’s hairy white rump made Ronda bark out a weird chuckle and clap her own hands together. That’s my child, Ronda thought.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ronda saw Kara giggling and teetering as the fence wobbled beneath her, she was so ecstatic with glee for Lulu, and Ronda thought okay, it was gonna be okay and her girl had just broken some kind of world championship mutton bustin’ record, damn right.

Then Kara fell off the gate.

At first Ronda thought Becky had pulled her down, because for sure that gate wasn’t too stable at all. One moment Kara was there, like a sunlit cherub in Ariats and an Elmo tshirt. The next, she was gone.

Someone screamed, a squeal of horror that split apart the raucous din like a razor splitting flesh. It was Becky.

“Kara! Kara sweetie get up! Oh my gawd John, John she’s hurt! She’s hurt and she doesn’t have her helmet on! John! Darryl! Somebody – please – get her outta there!”

Ronda thought, what’s the big deal? The girl, even as chunky as she was, could squeeze back through the space between rails easy. Hooking her arm through the top rail, Ronda dangled herself out to get a better look

Kara was on her knees in the dirt, squalling like a newborn and holding her fleshy left arm up at an unnerving degree. Broken, thought Ronda. Kara’s lip was was bleeding, too, and Ronda fought back a vicious urge to jump the railing, seize the child, and shake her. Kara looked like so much easy prey.

“Ohh shit,” Ronda gasped, and felt James’ hand on her back.

“You better look away,” he said softly. “Don’t want trouble.”

“I know,” Ronda grunted. “Where’s Lulu?”

“She’s comin’ back.”

Lulu had now noticed Kara in the ring, and halted, perplexed, cocked her head in almost the same way that Darryl had earlier. Sniffed the air.

“Come on Lulu!” Ronda yelled, and it came out in a roar. Nobody heard. Everyone near them was fixated on the plight of poor Kara, who was still sobbing while one of the rodeo clowns jogged across the arena toward her and Becky jiggled a fat arm through the gate trying to grab her.

The sheep, still loose and galloping in wide figure eights, dodged the rainbow-suspendered clown, kicked up a massive dirtclod with its hooves, and veered off again. Headed straight for Kara.

“Heeeyy!” The announcer piped up with a whine of audio feedback that made Ronda clench her hands tighter around the gate rail and gnash her teeth. “Get those clowns over there, awright?”

Kara was trying to stand up, but the booming voice over the loudspeakers startled her and she half-turned, overbalanced, and fell forward on her broken arm, just out of her mother’s reach.

The high-pitched shriek of pain that spiraled out of Kara almost knocked Ronda flat. The crowd sucked in a massive gasp of dismay, and Becky wailed and tried unsuccessfully to climb the fence. Kara rolled herself into a ball and shook with sobs, her pink face contorted in misery and smeared with dirt.

The sheep, disoriented by the child’s cries, careened toward the pens, almost mowed down a rodeo clown, and then doubled back at highspeed, ten yards from where Kara lay.

Sacrifice, thought Ronda, and loathed herself as she felt her stomach growl. She swung a leg over the rail.

“What the hell’re you doin’?” James yanked at the back of her shirt.

“KAAYYRAAHHH!!!” A shrill voice pealed out, and Ronda whipped her head around. Lulu was closer now, but she’d ripped off her hockey mask and dropped it to the ground. On her young face was a look of fury and despair that Ronda had never seen before. Her eyes blazed. “MOMMY!!!! Mommy Kayruh’s HURTED!!”

Becky’s husband John, just as girthy as Becky, couldn’t heave his bulk over the fence, and the cowboys in the chute had waited too long to try and open the gates. Ronda saw that she had maybe five seconds to get to Kara before the sheep did, if it kept coming. Surely it’d turn away and not trample the child, but tonight Ronda had already seen worse things happen to several of the kids who’d been bucked off, and those kids had been wearing hockey pads and masks.

What Lulu might do, though, Ronda feared much more. We can’t leave this town, too, she thought, with grim determination, and sprang into the arena. Behind her, James grunted her name and she ignored him.

Ronda landed on all fours and lifted her head. The reek of lanolin and blood and grassy feces roiled in her sinuses. Dimly, she heard the pound and surge of the audience, every heart beating in a dissonant rhythm. She saw Lulu running hell bent toward her – no, toward Kara, a savage intensity pulling her tiny mouth into a snarl.

Oh no, baby don’t, thought Ronda, and she leapt forward.

Movement to her right caught her eye as she ran. Darryl. He vaulted the fence, touched down and kicked off into a graceful sprint, and Ronda had a quick moment to think to herself, in stunned amazement: what are you, then, that I never sniffed you out?

He seemed to be heading straight for her, and Ronda saw that all four of them – herself, Lulu, Darryl, and the stupid mutton, might collide in a bone-cracking explosion of wool and muscle, but she kept on. If she could scoop up Lulu on the fly and keep going, she’d leave Darryl to whatever he intended. Surely he meant to help Kara?

Ronda gulped in air, saw Lulu covering ground in a low, speedy crawl, and knew she wasn’t going to make it in time.

The sheep never slowed, barreling toward Kara – until the moment when Lulu tackled it. It made a sound halfway between a yip and a mewl and then Ronda could see nothing but a blur punctuated by hoofkicks and Lulu’s high-spirited howl of triumph. The sheep, Ronda thought dazedly. The sheep, not the piglet. Lulu hadn’t hurt her friend. She’d helped her.

The horde of people in the bleachers thundered like a summer storm, and Ronda couldn’t even hear her own keening wail, a noise that threatened to become a crazy bark of laughter, or a yelp, she didn’t know which. A blind madness overtook her.

Before she could reach Kara, Darryl got there first, swung past the child’s prone form and snatched her up by the collar of her tshirt. She kicked and hollered as he swept her up, her pale belly heaving and then she was over the rail and in Becky’s blubbering embrace. Then Darryl wheeled and came at Ronda.

“Get your pup off that sheep right now!” he barked, and slammed into her broadside with his haunch. He was smaller than Ronda, but wiry and agile, and she stumbled and almost rolled.

She would have turned on him, would have pushed him down and tore into him, but over his shoulder, she saw James. He was standing atop the rail and yelling at her, waving his arms, but she couldn’t hear him. His mouth moved soundlessly, his eyes juddering whitely in their sockets.

Ronda glanced up. A thousand pairs of human eyes nailed her in place like a lifeless hide tacked to a trophy wall. All eyez on me, she thought, with giddy rage. And Lulu. Dammit.

Mutton bustin’. Ronda scowled. Indeed. She whirled, and in two strides had her claws tangled in the sheep’s greasy wool, yanked hard and pulled the struggling animal free from Lulu’s grasp.   In one swift motion, Ronda whipped the animal aside, and it tumbled onto its back, flipped, and shook itself to standing. No blood, Ronda observed with relief. Lulu still had her baby teeth.

The mutton gave a quick, irritated baaaa, and then spun and ran headlong into one of the stupefied rodeo clowns.

Darryl was at her side. “You better cry,” he snapped at her. “And make it look good. Your kid just got attacked by a sheep, awright?”

Lulu was up on her feet and ready to launch herself after the mutton, but Ronda grabbed her and pulled her close, lifting the child into an embrace.   “Ssshhh,” she whispered to her quivering daughter, who kicked at her and tried to bite her neck. “Stoppit,” Ronda yapped softly. “Lulu. Sweetie. It’s me. It’s Mama. Ssshhh.”

“Mommyyyy,” Lulu snuffled. “Where Kaahhaa heeyy ruhhh,” she began to sob. “Where Kara? Didda sheepie huh huh hurt Kayyy ruh??”

“She’s okay, baby. You’re okay.” And the damn sheep is too, Ronda sighed. Damn sheepies are always okay.

In the stands, applause began as a slow ripple, like a faraway rain, then grew to a downpour, surrounding the three of them in a cacophony of chants and whistles.

“AMAAAAZING!!” The announcer declared. “I don’t know about you folks, but that was definitely the show-stopper tonight! Let’s give this little girl and her mom a big ol’ rodeo cheer!!”

“You owe me,” Darryl said in Ronda’s ear.

Ronda eyed her coworker, her chin resting on Lulu’s shoulder as the girl clung to her neck. James was walking across the arena toward them, a mix of possessive fury and perplexity – and relief – on his face.

“No, you owe me,” Ronda countered, beholden to no man, white or black, pack or not, human or otherwise. “You owe me some answers about what you are.” She paused, considering.   “My husband grills a mean steak,” she told Darryl. “I think you need to come over for dinner some time.”

Darryl surprised her with a toothy grin, and a short, yipping laugh.

“Steak sounds good,” he replied. “I like mine rare.”

“I thought you might,” said Ronda. In her arms, Lulu woofed sleepily.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on September 29, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 23, Issue 23 Stories, Short Stories, Stories

Shifted Suspicions

by William R.A.D. Funk

The Hunter

Rhythmic breathing beat back the desert’s silence. Leather sandals slapped the flat, cracked land with the rigid pattern of a soldier’s conditioning. Sweat rained down from his brow, blurring his vision. He dragged an arm across his face, but dry air had already licked it clean.

Tyrol of Thein raced through the shimmering waves of heat, his enemy too far ahead to see. His enemy, shaped and dressed as an Imperial soldier, could have only one destination in mind: the Imperial outpost. If that man, that monstrosity, made it there before Tyrol, the garrison could suffer the same gruesome fate as those in the rebel camp. A rebel himself, Tyrol had no love for Imperial soldiers, but no man deserved such a fate.

He attempted to swallow. Mouth dry, his throat stuck together, robbing him of the simple gesture.

High above, the sun appeared large, its width spanning half the sky. In ten minutes, Tyrol knew he’d die from heat stroke. His body would feel suddenly cold, his vision would darken until that final sleep came.

But that didn’t matter. As long as the creature died before him.

Less than two hundred paces ahead, the vague outline of his quarry moved effortlessly through the desert of No Man’s Land, the edge of civilization. Tyrol’s prey didn’t seem to mind the heat. Its direction centered on the Imperial outpost, where it could regain its numbers, where it could sink its teeth into the Empire, destroying it from within.

The Vicis glanced over its shoulder, face devoid of emotion, while its eyes glared through narrow slits. Its gaze met Tyrol’s and hissed–the threat of a cornered animal.

Fists balled and jaw clinched, Tyrol centered on his target and sprinted from his steady pace.

The Commander

Centurio Albus of Caisus, dishonored Commander of the Imperial outpost in No Man’s Land, continued his patrol through the underground compound. He climbed the ladder from the living quarters to a small dugout–the outpost’s only above-surface structure. By the fourth rung, he could hear the raspy sounds of a man’s snores.

Albus stifled a growl.

The watchman had fallen asleep–again. Undermanned and ill-equipped, the outpost could afford no more than one man on watch at any given time. And, he’d fallen asleep.

Wooden rungs groaned under Albus’s grip as he ascended, anger hidden behind white lips stretched thin.

Albus kept quiet. Each step, every movement, produced no more than silence despite his heavy breastplate and greaves. The thick plume of blue and black on his montefortino helmet barely stirred when he crept up behind the watchman.

Meanwhile, Rufus snored away from the chair, slumped and sprawled out over a table, head propped up on one arm.

Albus’s patience had grown thin over five long years in the desert–a post assigned as punishment for the crimes of another. To add further insult to his injury, the Empire continued to send him every reject and reprobate.

He unsheathed his sword, glaring down at Rufus. His upper lip twitched at the wretched excuse for a soldier. The blade rose high. It hadn’t drawn blood in all of those five years, growing thirsty from lack of use.

A powerful swing connected with Rufus’s head. The loud crack echoed against the clay-baked walls of the tiny dugout.

#

“Wake up, you idiot,” Albus shouted over the clanging echo of metal against metal.

Startled, Rufus’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword as he stumbled from the chair. He whirled about, back against the wall, his now dented helmet at a jilted angle.

“If I were the enemy, Recruit, do you think I’d taken the time to wake you first?” Albus asked, his blade-point pressed against Rufus’s blue and black tunic.

Rufus’s hand fell away from his sword, cheeks red, eyes focused on Albus’s blade. “No–o, Sir.”

“And where’s your armor?” Albus pushed the point deep enough to make the man wince.

Rufus’s eyes wandered to the table, where his breastplate lay in a heap. It wasn’t the first display of complacency and to Albus’s dismay, it wouldn’t be the last.

Rufus straightened to attention. “Apologies, Sir. It’s just this damnable heat. No matter how awake I am, I find myself falling forever toward sleep.”

“You’re new to this post,” Albus said, letting the sword hang at his side. “You’ll grow accustomed to it. Or as accustomed as a man can.”

Rufus nodded. “Yes, Sir. I–I will, Sir.”

“And if you don’t,” Albus bared his teeth and spoke through them. “I’ll kill you long before heat or rebels have the chance. Do you understand me?”

Rufus swallowed, and then nodded.

Bright light filtered in by narrow slits, lancets, wide enough to fire an arrow through, but thin enough to keep men out. Albus stared out at the desert. Barren, lifeless land stretched out as far as he could see.

“I’ll be checking on you from time to time,” Albus said, turning back to his subordinate. “If I ever catch you sleeping on watch again, I’ll stretch you out on the sand and let the sun take you slow.”

Sweat rained down from Rufus’s prominent forehead, curving over his bulbous snout. His eyes had gone wide, quivering in their sockets.

Albus sighed. He’d allowed his anger to get the best of him. Right or wrong, he would be stuck with this man for a long time. More than twenty years of leadership had taught him to temper punishment with education and a chance for redemption. “No one can make you strong.”

Rufus’s brow curved down, a wounded look.

“Only you can do that,” Albus continued. “Discipline and respect are not passed down from one to another. You have to cultivate it. Pull it from deep within. The Empire isn’t strong because it’s the Empire. It’s strong because men make it so. Be one of those men.”

Rufus’s wounded brow curved in with thought. A hint of pride sparkled in his eyes.

“For now, try standing when on duty,” Albus suggested. “It won’t be comfortable, but that’s the point. It won’t be as easy to fall asleep on your feet.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Back at it then.” Albus headed for the ladder, the soldier still visible through the corner of his eye.

Rufus’s shoulders slumped. He rubbed at his chest where the blade had almost punctured.

Cooler air rushed up to greet Albus. Down in his quarters, he could remove the armor if only for a couple hours. He could use some of Quintus’s powder on the skin to stave off heat rashes and blisters.

“Are we to receive a resupply from the Empire, Sir?” Rufus called.

Albus understood the question or rather the concern. Out here, a soldier could feel disconnected or forgotten by the rest of the world. Without resupply, the outpost would starve in a couple of weeks. “In three days,” Albus said. “But, don’t worry. The military caravan has never been late. This outpost is to the Empire. They wouldn’t easily forget–”

“I don’t mean to contradict, Sir, but I think one is coming here now.”

Albus froze, two rungs deep, the underground cooling his calves. The resupply caravan wouldn’t–couldn’t–be early. Its schedule was decided in advance for security.

Due to the desert’s deadly heat, the only living souls out on the sand were soldiers from the two conflicting outposts. The alternative to a resupply caravan would be a rebel incursion–an event that hadn’t happened since the war’s onset.

“Show me,” Albus ordered. He forced his way back into the heat.

Rufus pointed through one of the lancets. “There. It’s a blur now, but it’s definitely headed this way.”

Albus followed the soldier’s outstretched finger. As he described, the hazy blur of a single person contrasted against a cloudless horizon. The terrain was devoid of life; no plants, trees or shrubbery existed to obstruct Albus’s view. Even rocks and boulders were a rarity. Only the flat, cracked, desert floor as far as one could see.

“Sound the alarm,” Albus shouted.

Rufus grabbed the rope to the alarm bell’s clapper.

“Wake up Tatius,” Albus continued, “Make sure Otho and Nonus bring their bows. And, now would be a good time to don your armor.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Rufus thrust the rope back and forth. Clapper against bell, its sound would reverberate down through the outpost’s three underground levels. All would hear it and know: The outpost was under attack.

Albus stared out at the approaching figure. It bounced up and down in a sprint, distorted as the desert gave up its heat.

A sword in his grip and a grin on his lips, the invigorating jolt of adrenaline coursed through Albus. After five long years, he was finally back in his natural element.

The Rebel

“Help me!” shouted a stranger, wearing Imperial garb, as he sprinted toward the dugout.

Albus watched the scene with bent brow. It had to be a rebel trick. The only Imperials in the desert were under his command.

“Halt!” Albus shouted. Neither of the two approaching men seemed to hear. “Halt or be fired upon.”

Now, the man dressed as an Imperial soldier heard the words and spotted Albus’s two archers. He stopped, hands up. The Imperial glanced over his shoulder at his attacker still charging down on him.

Albus raised two fingers. “On the rebel.”

“Yes, Sir,” Otho and Nonus acknowledged. Their arrows honed in on the rebel’s green tunic.

“Die!” The rebel shouted, sword raised high in the air.

Albus dropped his hand, the signal to his archers. The arrows were quiet as they spit forth. Two dull thuds announced they’d found a target, their feathered ends extending from the green tunic, now stained red.

The rebel reeled back from the force, but didn’t collapse. He straightened, then fell to his knees. Over his head, he held the sword with both hands and flung it at the stranger. The blade punched through the man’s thigh.

Both men collapsed. The rebel fell to his side, chest heaving in short, violent jerks, while the Imperial’s bellows sounded inhuman as the cries of dying men often did.

“Otho, Nonus, get him to Quintus–” Albus pointed to the wounded Imperial, “–and neither of you are to leave his side until I say otherwise.”

“Yes, Sir,” Under each arm, both men lifted the wounded soldier to his feet. They escorted him to the dugout, sword still protruding from his leg.

Albus walked over to the dying rebel. “Far from home aren’t you?” He eyed the horizon, half-expecting/half-hoping more rebels would materialize.

The rebel smiled, blood trailing from parted lips. “You should’ve let me kill him,” the rebel’s words were soft and raspy. Albus stooped to hear. “Vicis is your problem now.”

“Vicis?” Albus asked, brows bent.

The rebel didn’t answer. He was dead.

“Rufus!” Albus shouted.

“Yes, Sir.” Rufus ran up to his side. His bronze breast plate was half-fastened and his dented helmet still sat at a jaunty angle.

Albus sighed at the recruit’s appearance. “Bring the rebel’s body to Quintus. When he’s done tending to the wounded man, he may be able to tell us something about what would bring a single rebel to our little desert oasis.”

“Yes, Sir.” Rufus looked at the corpse as if it weighed five hundred pounds.

Another sigh. “Get Plinius or Gallus to help you.”

“Yes, Sir.” Rufus’s voice rose in what had to be relief.

“And where is Tatius?” Albus asked about his second-in-command.

Rufus shrugged.

Annoyed, Albus made his way back to the dugout. Unprofessionalism and complacency he’d come to expect from those under his command. Cowardice, however, he would never tolerate.

He ducked through the dugout’s low arch. Fists clenched. Albus would ensure Tatius never displayed fear in front of the others if he had to beat courage into his scrawny hide.

The Coward

Tatius of Caisus sat on the patient’s cot in Quintus’s laboratory. Glass flasks, beakers, and cylinders containing multicolored concoctions bubbled and hissed along the red-gray walls. Quintus, adorned in his occupation’s purple robe, worked with mortar and pestle to grind a small rock into dust.

“A little egg white from a domesticated chicken,” Quintus listed the ingredients as he plucked them from their various jars and added them to his mix. The blend of catalysts and reagents percolated in a small glass beaker suspended over the coal fire. “Can’t forget the wormwood extract.” He sprinkled what appeared to Tatius as sawdust into the beaker. The combination fizzled and coughed up a green wisp of smoke.

Tatius fought to keep his right eye from twitching. His fingers danced nervously on the cot’s wooden frame. Hardly aware, his toes tap, tap, tapped on the cavern floor. It was the heat. It had a way of crawling under the skin and scratch, scratch, scratching. He needed to cool down or go mad. His own rational thoughts hung by a straw from the outreaches of his mind. The earlier alarm bell had demanded his presence two floors above, where the heat was even stronger. To obey its call was unimaginable. He knew–if only in a distant way–that one good push and his mind would be lost forever.

“Please hurry, Quintus,” Tatius begged. He tore off his tunic. The normally pale flesh beneath was red and irritated. “I don’t think I can–” He pressed his palm to a temple and winced. His thoughts had ducked out of grasp.

“Patience, my boy,” Quintus said, his voice soothing. “I’m grinding the last ingredient now. Frost-stone from our own mine. You remember how it cooled your body last time?”

Tatius watched Quintus’s long beard bounce up and down as he spoke, but the words garbled in his ears. Gray hair funneled through a silver, ruby-encrusted ring. It’s gentle sway hypnotized as the wizard spoke.

Quintus pinched the powder from his mortar and sprinkled it into the beaker. There was a crackle as icy-blue smoke escaped. “Now, drink this and–”

“Tatius!” Albus’s voice burrowed through the outpost’s tunnels. “I have words for you!”

Tatius squeaked. “He’s coming. He’ll put me on guard duty, Quintus…with the heat!” He looked about the room for escape. “I can’t go back up there, Quintus. I can’t.”

“Just drink this and I think you’ll feel better.” Quintus poured the beaker’s contents into a brass cup.

“I just can’t go back up there!” Tatius shouted and made for the door.

“At least drink–” Quintus’s words thinned out as Tatius turned the corner and made for the ladder, then down into the mine.

The Madness

“Quintus,” Albus burst into the wizard’s laboratory, a place he avoided on most occasions.

Magic made him uneasy. Even now, it sent a jittery anxiety through his muscles. There was something unnatural about the unseen. It was undisciplined. Impossible to regulate by a laymen and barely manageable by the initiated. It gave men a power they were ill-equipped to possess; a power to undermine the will of others.

Albus in his haste to find Tatius, now found himself standing in the outpost’s source of magic. Colorful fluids bubbled, as strange animal parts floated in jars, while odd mists whisked above a coal fire. Each breath dragged a whimsical scent into his lungs: Familiar, but absent from memory. The presence of magic’s unpredictable machinations stole some of the rigidity from Albus’s broad shoulders.

“There’s no need to shout, Albus,” Quintus returned. “I’m old, but everything still works.” His beard and bushy mustache arched up into a wide smile. “Now, what can I do for the commander, today?”

Albus cleared his throat. “I seek Tatius. Have you seen him?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?” Albus started forward, then stopped. Further into Quintus’s domain caused his muscles to tighten. What strange spell had the wizard cast to rob him of his confidence?

“Please, sit,” Quintus motioned to a wooden chair by the round table at which the wizard prepared and consumed his meals. “Would you care for some?” He held up the beaker of his latest concoction. “It’s Chill Bone potion. You won’t feel the heat for several hours.”

Albus waved it away. The raw, chafed flesh under his greaves begged him to reconsider. “As it wears off, my tolerance of the heat will have to start anew.”

“Not everyone’s as strong of will as you,” Quintus said, his smile shifted to one side.

“I’ve no need for compliments, Quintus. I need to find my second.”

“It’s about poor Tatius that I refer.”

Albus folded his arms.

“He didn’t ignore the bell for the reason you most likely assume.”

Albus sighed. Quintus had a way of drawing out a conversation whether a person wanted to talk or not.

Albus took the proffered seat at the table. “Then what reason did my second-in-command not rise to the call of battle?”

“Heat madness,” Quintus stated, smile gone. “Or at least, its inception.”

Albus’s haste to find Tatius withered. Heat madness was not to be taken lightly. Two men in the last five years of Albus’s command had succumbed to the illness, the results disastrous.

First, his quartermaster at the time went mad, slit the watchman’s throat, and then ran out into the desert. His body, a sun-baked husk, was found hours later. A diary in the quartermaster’s scribbled hand narrated his belief that the watchman–in league with The Heat–had kept him prisoner. By killing him, the quartermaster was free to escape.

On the second encounter, Quintus discovered the symptoms in one of the miners. The man was confined to quarters until the resupply caravan could take him back to civilization for treatment.

“If what you say is true, we have to confine Tatius immediately,” Albus stated.

Quintus nodded. “I was preparing Chill Bone potion for him before you arrived. I’d planned on adding a sedative to make him more compliant, but your booming voice sent poor Tatius into flight.” The wizard peppered his tone with a hint of reprimand.

“I take your point.” Albus gave the wizard a roguish smile. “Tell me where he is now, and I promise to whisper until he’s found.”

“Unless I miss my guess, he’ll have made his way to the lower level where it’s coolest.”

Albus nodded. “With Plinius and Gallus helping Rufus, the mine is deserted.”

“That’s best considering the possible state of Tatius’s mind,” Quintus said.

Albus stood. “Agreed–”

“Wounded man coming through,” Otho shouted. He and Nonus carried the wounded Imperial–now unconscious–into Quintus’s laboratory.

“What’s this?” Quintus asked, riddled with excited curiosity.

“A wounded soldier that needs aide,” Albus stated the obvious. “Beyond that, we have to discover for ourselves. Let me know when he’s ready to speak.”

Quintus didn’t waste time. He raced about the room collecting materials from drawers and shelves.

“Either Otho or Nonus will serve as guard over the wounded man until I say otherwise,” Albus said. “If you need assistance, get one of them to help.”

“Of course, of course,” Quintus answered, his attention elsewhere. “Otho, you’re the strongest. You’ll hold the man down while Nonus helps me pull the sword free.”

“Make way!” Rufus shouted, as he helped Plinius and Gallus carry the rebel’s dead body into the room.

“And what’s this?” Quintus asked.

“Another mystery I hope you can shed light on when you’re done with him–” Albus pointed to the wounded Imperial, then back to the rebel, “–our dead friend here was chasing him across the desert.”

“And where are his comrades?”

“He came alone,” Albus said.

“How strange,” Quintus whispered as he prepared his tools on the round table where Albus had been sitting a moment ago. “Perhaps poor Tatius wasn’t alone in his current plight.”

“Perhaps,” Albus granted, not convinced. Although his words were unusual, the rebel didn’t appear insane.

“Well, I can handle things here. You should concern yourself with Tatius before his condition worsens.”

Albus couldn’t argue. “Plinius. Gallus. Suit up. The two of you will accompany me into the mine. Tatius has been taken by heat madness. He’s to be apprehended and secured in his quarters.”

Everyone except Quintus stared at Albus, their faces uncertain.

“I said, suit up!” Albus roared. His voice still had an effect. The two miners shook themselves free and raced to their quarters for arms and armor. “Rufus, stand at the ladder and alert me if Tatius tries to ascend.”

“Yes, Sir.” Rufus rushed out.

“Otho,” Albus said, waiting for Otho to turn. “As quartermaster, you are second-in-command while Tatius is incapacitated. Don’t disappoint.”

“Ye–yes, Sir,” Otho stammered, his large head and tiny ears accurately painting the picture of sub-modest intelligence.

Rejects and reprobates, Albus thought. Not a man among them.

“And, put someone on guard-duty. The post is unmanned,” Albus added.

Albus walked out of Quintus’s laboratory into the narrow corridor carved from the red-gray rock that made up most of the desert’s underground. Two floors below the surface, crates and burlap sacks clotted the corridor, the level serving as storage aside from Quintus’s secluded work space. One floor above housed their living quarters and one floor below contained the reason for an Imperial presence in No Man’s Land, the frost-stone mine.

Turning the corner, Albus could hear a whispered voice emanate from Quintus’s laboratory, “What the hell does all that mean?” Otho asked.

“It means if the boss meets an untimely end, you become the supreme leader of this pile of sand,” said Nonus, the outpost’s resident priest.

The Miner

Gallus was the first to step foot on the mine’s floor. Met with a black darker than night, he drew his sword. Someone, presumably Tatius, had extinguished the oil lanterns, plunging the winding tunnel complex into an abyss.

The overgrown miner shivered. His sweaty clothes now clung to his body, made cold by the mine’s chill. He watched as his breath formed a thin vapor before it vanished into the darkness.

“I need light down here,” Gallus called up the vertical tunnel.

A whisper echoed around him, “Light means flame. Flame means heat. Heat is bad. Heat is the enemy.” The voice, if not deranged, belonged to Tatius.

Gallus–the largest Imperial in the outpost both in size and strength–felt vulnerable. He pressed his back against the ladder, the soft light from above created a limited glow for a couple of feet in every direction. It wouldn’t give ample warning if Tatius charged him, but with the light came a shred of confidence.

“Tatius, Sir. It’s Gallus…the miner. I’m a friend. Remember?”

A high-pitched chuckle echoed against the mine’s rock-strewn walls.

Gallus thanked the Empire’s one true deity as an oil lantern descended by a rope and pulley system. The same system used to remove excavated frost-stone from one level to the next. With each foot lowered, two feet of light stretched out in front of the miner. Once at eye level, Gallus could see the room before him.

The sieve room was a rounded space twenty feet across and a couple hands taller than Gallus’s six-foot frame. Various tools hung on the wall by wooden pegs. Two tunnels wormed their way through the rock across from where Gallus stood.

In the center, a large apparatus dominated half the room. Also rounded, it contained twelve layers of bronzed mesh used to separate ordinary rock from frost-stone. It was operated by repeatedly pulling on a rope that shifted the sieve’s layers from side to side. That was Plinius’s job. A man with a wiry build, Plinius was better suited to the task. While Gallus had to claw raw stone from the mine’s tunnel with a pickaxe.

Pickaxe! An empty space on the wall caught Gallus’s eye between the shovels and hammers. A pickaxe was missing. Yet, Plinius was meticulous about the tools. If one was out of place…

“Commander, I think Tatius has armed himself with a pickaxe.”

Laughter faded down one of the tunnels. From the echo, Gallus couldn’t determine which one.

“Stay your position. We’re coming down,” Albus announced.

Albus and Plinius had descended. Rufus stayed above should Tatius get by them and try to flee upward. Gallus used the flame from his oil lantern to ignite the others along the wall. In minutes, the sieve room took on its typical orange-blue glow. The black fumes from oil lanterns escaped through slits carved into the ceiling.

Proper ventilation made the mine livable. Its cooler clime made it desirable. Desirable until an armed madman had sequestered it. Now, Gallus would’ve taken a turn at watch rather than be down below. He found insufferable heat was suddenly preferable to a pickaxe in the chest.

“Tell me about the tunnels,” Albus instructed.

Gallus spoke first, having spent most of his days chipping away at the mine, “As you already know, the tunnel to the left is abandoned. We’ve scraped every pebble from that vane years ago. But, the tunnel to the right is fairly new, only a few hundred feet.”

“Do they intersect at any point?” Albus asked.

“Yes, Sir. There’s one,” Gallus replied. “It was by accident. When following the new vane, we intersected with one of the branches from the original tunnel.”

“Curses,” Albus muttered. His eyes retreated to a distant stare as if processing some internal calculations.

The commander’s deeply concentrated look reminded Gallus of the stories he’d heard about the man: Tales of a powerful tactician with more victories under his leadership than anyone else alive. His one inescapable flaw was in having a brother who aligned with the rebel’s polytheistic cause. He’d refused to execute his little brother, which led to his subsequent disgrace and exile to the outpost five years ago. In the face of that injustice, he never complained, never faltered in his duties.

“Why does that matter, Sir?” Plinius asked. The thinner of the two miners looked comical in drooping armor. His helmet and breast plate were made for a soldier much larger than him.

“It means we’ll have to split up,” Albus explained. “If we all go down one tunnel, Tatius could simply circle around behind us in an endless loop. The rebellion has used conditions like these to make their smaller numbers count.”

“The rebels, Sir?” Plinius asked. Gallus often wondered how a person that quick in body could be that slow of intellect. Then again, repeatedly pulling the sieve’s rope didn’t require a lot of thought.

Albus nodded, his face bright as he explained. “A legion’s numbers are useless if they have to funnel into a narrow space. Tatius is a graduate of the War College. He knows this. Even in his addled mind, he might retain a soldier’s strategic wit.”

“How should we split, Commander?” Gallus asked, fearing the worst.

“Since you know the tunnels better than either of us, you will take the new tunnel. Since I know little of them, Plinius will serve as my guide down the left.”

Gallus swallowed hard. It wasn’t the thought of armed conflict that rattled his nerve, but rather the strange laugh Tatius echoed off the walls. There was something inhuman about insanity.

“If you should encounter Tatius, don’t engage,” Albus said, face stern. “Simply shout that you’ve spotted him. Plinius and I will rush to the intersecting tunnel behind him. The same goes if we discover him first. If we can, I’d like to take Tatius alive. He’s a good man and it’d be a shame to lose him in such a disgraceful manner.”

“Yes, Sir,” Gallus replied with what he thought passed for confidence.

“Let’s begin,” Albus said, plucking a lantern from a hook on the wall and handing it to Plinius before taking one for himself.

Gallus followed the example.

“Good luck,” Albus said, stepping one careful foot at a time down the left tunnel.

Plinius shot Gallus an uncertain glance. The two of them had spent three years as partners. Unlike the soldiers above, they were civilians, a separate class.

“Don’t worry,” Gallus comforted, hiding his own fear. “You couldn’t be safer. The commander’s well known for getting his hands dirty in battle.”

“But, what about you?” Plinius whimpered.

Gallus puffed out his chest. “Tatius is a tough guy, but do you see anyone taking down someone with these.” He slapped a free hand against his bicep, the muscle thicker than Plinius’s head.

The skinny miner smiled, then nodded. The fear in his eyes had gone.

“Now stop wasting time,” Gallus mock-scolded. “The commander needs his guide. Hop to.”

Plinius returned with a mock salute–fist against chest–and disappeared into the tunnel.

Each step into his own tunnel, Gallus wondered who would convince him it was safe.

The Wizard

“That should do it,” Quintus said over the closed wound. The stitch work was neat and even, a result from having an unconscious, unmoving patient. He walked over to a bowl of water and rinsed the blood from his hands. He instructed the others to do the same. “I don’t want bloody prints all over my laboratory.”

Otho obeyed.

But in playful defiance, Nonus hovered a bloodied hand an inch from the wall. No Man’s Land offered few distractions. And, the boredom had a way of reducing men to immature caricatures of themselves. Nonus was no exception. Although, Quintus couldn’t remember a time when the lanky priest was any more than a joke gone stale.

“Touch that wall and I’ll sprinkle fire-salt in your next Chill Bone potion,” Quintus warned.

Nonus recoiled as if the wall were infected with some strange disease. Eyes on the floor, he walked over and rinsed his hands in the bowl.

Quintus stooped over the Imperial, stroking his own beard beneath the ruby-encrusted ring. There was something wrong and he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. The wound should have shed more blood than it did. And, there was no sweat. The wounded man didn’t sweat. Granted, they were two levels below the surface, but it was still uncomfortably warm.

“I call dibs on it,” Nonus whined, breaking Quintus from his contemplation. Otho and Nonus were fighting over the looting rights for the rebel’s corpse.

“Back! Both of you,” Quintus shouted.

Despite Quintus’s earlier threat involving fire salts, Nonus now glared at him. “You now the rule, Magician,” Nonus used the less flattering term for the wizard’s profession. Magicians were the charlatans of the magic world. Illusions and parlor tricks were the domain of such lesser men. While Magic belonged to the wizard. “A soldier can loot what he kills.”

“But, my arrow struck first,” Otho broke in. “And, as the commander put it, I’m in charge while he’s gone.

Quintus sighed, tugging at his beard. Soldiers could be so short-sighted. They lacked the patience for proper investigation. “I’m not contesting your right to loot, but the commander gave specific orders for me to find out why this man came alone. I must do so before you pick him clean.”

Both men looked dubious.

“Perhaps the two of you can discuss how to divide the loot while I conduct my investigation.”

Suspicion vanished, replaced by greed.

“That should be simple enough,” Nonus said, walking away from the body. “I have quicker reflexes. Naturally, it was my arrow that launched first.”

“Except, I’m stronger. My arrow would fly faster,” Otho rebutted.

Quintus drowned out the bickering as he examined the corpse. The man lacked any armor, but wore the green tunic of the rebellion, green standing for honor and victory. An intentional change from the Empire’s blue and black, blue for loyalty and faith to the one true deity–a fact that the polytheistic rebels fought against.

Around the neck, a thin plate of metal on a hemp string identified the man as Tyrol of Thein. He had a belt pouch with a handful of copper coins and an empty scabbard. The missing blade sat on a brass tray, recently removed from a man’s leg.

Quintus tore open the tunic. His hand then crept up to stroke his own beard. “Interesting,” he muttered.

Nonus and Otho were drawn by the word. “What’s interesting?” Nonus asked. “Is it valuable?”

“Only to an inquisitive mind,” Quintus replied. “See these marks?”

Nonus and Otho nodded. “Flesh wounds,” Otho uttered.

“Exactly,” Quintus said. “They’re quite recent too. Our dead rebel was in battle not long ago.”

“Out here?” Nonus asked, wrinkling his long nose. “Against who?”

“Wh–where am I?” called a voice from the patient’s cot.

“Maybe our now-conscious friend can shed some light on these mysteries,” Quintus said, walking over to the wounded Imperial. “What’s your name, son?”

“Cato–” a dry cough cut him short.

Quintus handed him a cup of Chill Bone potion to wet his throat. Cato drained it and sighed in notable relief.

“Ah. I needed that,” Cato said, then stopped. His hands clawed at his stomach as he doubled over in pain. Before he could utter a sound, the man shook in a violent seizure.

“What do we do?” Nonus shouted in panic.

“Nothing,” Quintus said, hiding his own fear. “The fit has to finish before we can–” The seizure stopped, a thin strand of pink foam had bubbled between his lips. Cato lay motionless.

Quintus placed an ear over Cato’s mouth and watched the chest. It didn’t rise. Breath didn’t tickle his ear. Horrified, he laid a hand on the man’s chest. The heart didn’t beat.

“He’s dead,” Quintus said, stunned by his own announcement. He dropped to a whisper, “But he didn’t lose that much blood. Did I miss something?”

“What?” Otho asked. “How? What did you give him?”

“Chill Bone potion,” Quintus replied. “It couldn’t hurt a newborn much less a grown man.”

Quintus got to his feet and paced the length of his laboratory. He tugged at his beard as if he could pull the answers free by a strong enough yank.

“He’s going to kill me,” Otho muttered.

Nonus chuckled. “The burdens of leadership, my friend,” he said, slapping Otho on the back.

“What?” Quintus returned his attention back to the room. He spotted the fear in Otho’s eyes and recognized the same concern in Tatius before he fled. “Relax,” he said, placing a hand on Otho’s shoulder. “Cato was my patient. His death is my responsibility and I’ll tell Albus the same. You’re absolved of any fault.”

Otho nodded. “Okay, Quintus.” Relief washed away the fear in his eyes.

Quintus was less concerned over Albus’s reaction than the quartermaster. There was a good chance his patient had died from a potion he’d given him. Wizards were sworn to protect life at all costs. Magic to kill and potions to poison were left to the shadowy figures of sorcerers and dark alchemists. To have taken a life, even if by accident, would call his abilities into question. It was rare, but a wizard would occasionally fall for the allure of darker magics. With a dead patient, questions would be asked. Doubt would form.

Quintus shook the thought from his head, if only for a moment. “Help me put the rebel on the cot. I don’t want to be tripping over bodies all day.”

Nonus and Otho obeyed.

“Otho,” Quintus whispered to the quartermaster. “Didn’t the commander instruct you to post a watchman?”

Otho’s eyes shot open. “That’s right.” He raced out of the room.

“I’ll bring you some Chill Bone potion,” Quintus called after him. Turning to Nonus, “I trust you can guard two dead men. Maybe you can tend to their spirits before you strip them of their worldly possessions.” Those sarcastic words were out before he could pull them back in.

“Don’t worry about me, Magician,” Nonus returned with equal venom. “If they give me any funny business, I’ll just give them some of your Chill Bone potion. It seems to be more effective than a sword.” The priest’s smile turned wicked.

Quintus bit down hard. The comment struck deep. It would be the first of many like it if he didn’t do something fast. Cornered, he chose the most common refuge–denial. He replied by pouring a cup of the potion, then drinking it all in long confident gulps.

Nonus’s jaw dropped.

“There’s nothing wrong with my potions,” Quintus said, pouring another round. He left the room, Otho’s cup of Chill Bone in hand.

The Savage

To Gallus, the echoed laughter of Tatius’s madness seemed closer with each step. The tunnels were his home. In days past, their closeness made him feel protected. Today, they closed in on him. They stifled.

A small cavity opened on Gallus’s right. He stopped. With a wave of the lantern, he illuminated the area. No Tatius.

The recesses along the tunnel were common. Whenever a vein of frost-stone or other precious ores split from the tunnel, Gallus would dig it out, leaving a small pocket in which he could later store materials and equipment. The spaces were often large enough to conceal one or two men comfortably. As a result, Gallus scanned them carefully before pressing on down the tunnel.

“I see your flame,” Someone whispered from up ahead, out of sight.

Gallus stopped. He pressed the lantern forward, creasing his eyes to better pierce the dark.

“Tatius. Is that you?” Gallus called, his own voice bouncing back at him.

“You’re trying to bring the heat down to me.” Tatius raised his voice from a whisper to an angry accusation, “I won’t let you!”

“The lantern is only so I can see, Tatius,” Gallus returned.

No answer.

“Come on, Tatius. We just want to help you. Commander says–”

“Commander says, commander says,” Tatius rattled off. “Commander says Tatius go up and lookout on the land of heat. Suffer the heat, the commander says.”

Gallus recognized the voice as Tatius’s, but it was different; it was twisted like the man’s mind.

With sword stretched out in front, he moved forward, ready to call out. Another cleft opened on the right. The lantern slowly peeled back the shadow concealing it. Light glinted of something metallic. Gallus sucked in a breath to shout. It had to be Tatius.

Gallus swung to face the crevice, lantern thrust forward. The space brightened. Flickering light reflected off the metal surface of a wheelbarrow.

He wasn’t there.

Tatius roared, emerging at full sprint from further down the tunnel. Pickaxe in hand, raised high, he barreled into Gallus’s side.

The large miner, stunned by the crazed look in the eyes of his attacker, managed only to lift his arm. The bone cracked as it connected with the pickaxe’s wooden handle. Pain exploded in Gallus’s wrist as Tatius’s momentum brought both of them to the ground.

Pinned on his side, Gallus could see the pickaxe’s sharp point inches from his face. With broken wrist and the weight of Tatius’s body pressing down, his superior strength abandoned him. Tatius laughed as he watched the point descend, lowering toward Gallus’s eye.

“That’ll teach you to attack me with heat,” he said.

Tatius lifted his body to drop down with more force. Gallus knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. The point would pierce his eye and then his brain, light’s out.

Gallus closed his eyes in anticipation.

There was a loud clang, but pain didn’t follow.

He opened his eyes in time to watch Tatius’s mouth sag open and his eyes roll up. Gallus jerked his hips and Tatius fell off, the unconscious man’s head smacking the tunnel wall.

Plinius stood over him, a shovel in hand. “What’s the point of having these–” Plinus said, slapping one of his biceps, “–if you don’t use them.” The skinny miner smiled.

The Priest

Nonus yawned. As with most days, he was bored. The fact that he shared a room with two dead bodies didn’t bother him. A priest’s duties often involved preparing the dead for their transition into the next world.

He snickered.

The next world. Now that was ludicrous. To believe in something they’d never seen. Something they had no evidence of aside from what men of religion said to be true. Priests, like himself, were mere con men with symbols of hope in one hand and a collection box in the other. It never ceased to amaze him how people could behave like mindless sheep, a hole ever-burning at the base of their coin purses.

That reminded him.

Nonus looked around the room. He was alone, no one to contend with his right to loot. Head poking from the door, he looked both ways. Rufus stood at the far end, guarding the ladder down to the mine, but no Otho or Quintus. Nonus silently closed the door and locked it.

After a cursory check of the rebel’s possessions, he wasn’t overjoyed. Seven coppers couldn’t even get him laid. It could buy the first pint of mead though. Nonus pocketed the coins.

He hovered over the Imperial and mused that Quintus technically had looting rights for killing his own patient. But then again, the wizard was too sanctimonious to loot. Nonus shrugged, then continued his search.

“Thanks for nothing, buddy,” Nonus said. The man had no possessions, not even the imprinted plate around his neck. He was anonymous, destined for an unmarked headstone.

“Help me,” Cato whispered, eyes open.

Nonus stumbled back, toppling two chairs on his way down.

Cato reached a weak hand out toward Nonus, pale and bent at the wrist. “Help me.”

“Yo–you’re dead,” Nonus muttered. He’d dealt with dozens of dead bodies. This was the first to speak.

Cato shook his head in a slow, heavy motion.

“But Quintus checked,” Nonus argued.

Cato shook his head again. “He was wrong.”

Not entirely convinced, Nonus turned toward the locked door. “I’ll get Quintus. He’ll know how to help you.”

Cato reached out. “Wait.”

Nonus stopped, glancing over his shoulder, his own hands trembling.

“I need–” Cato tried to speak, his words fading, “I need–”

“You need what?” Nonus asked.

“I need–” Cato motioned for Nonus to come closer.

Nonus took a couple steps forward. Cato motioned again. Reluctantly, Nonus moved close enough to stand over the bed, the rebel’s dead body between him and Cato.

“I…need–” Cato whispered, motioning closer.

Nonus bent over, just out of reach. “What do you need?”

“A place to hide,” Cato said.

Nonus’s eyes shot open. Something was wrong.

Before he could retreat, pain sliced across his upper back. Both legs went instantly numb, collapsing, dropping him forward. He tried to break his fall, but both arms refused to obey. He landed face first against Cato’s body.

“Your race is so easily deceived,” Cato said, sliding out from under him.

Strong hands lifted Nonus to the cot and rolled him over. Above, standing over him, Cato held the sword Quintus had removed from his leg.

“I can’t move,” Nonus said, his voice shaky.

“I severed your spine,” Cato explained. “At most you’ll be able to move your head and neck.” He dropped the sword back on the brass try.

“Why?” Nonus asked. “We tried to help you.”

Cato chortled. “I’ve known your people longer than you’ve known yourselves. You don’t help. You offer pretty promises and leave bitterness in your wake.” He shook his head, the mirth now absent from his face. “None of that matters now. This is our land. And you’ve come again with sword and pickaxe, to chip away at my home–” He stopped. The bones snapped and shifted. His face became an amalgam of different people Nonus had never seen before. Those thick muscles shrank while his body stretched. Before his eyes, Cato’s body had changed into someone else’s. When the face settled, Nonus lay silent, shocked. He was looking into the face of his own reflection.

“You’re–” Nonus started to say.

“You?” Cato finished. His face and body were identical to Nonus. “We are Vicis. And, soon your people will again learn to fear that name.” The Vicis removed Nonus’s armor, attaching it to his own body.

“But, I don’t understand–” Nonus was interrupted by the cloth shoved into his mouth. Cato tied a loose rag around Nonus’s head to keep him from spitting out the gag.

Cato walked over to a lantern hanging from a wall sconce. He blew out the flame and unhooked it.

“If it’s any consolation,” Cato spoke, standing over the cot, “your friends and loved ones will join you in the next world soon enough.”

“Huh?” Nonus sputtered through the gag.

Cato upturned the lantern, its oil spilling from the bowl, soaking Nonus and the rebel body.

The priest’s eyes stretched wide with horror as the situation became clear. Fear and a severed spine locked him in place.

Cato took an oil soaked straw and lit it from another lantern. He put the original lantern back in its place and lit it. Straw in hand, he walked over to the cot.

Nonus shook his head violently. “No!”

A wicked smile on Cato’s face, the straw dropped.

The Plan

The pulley system worked as Plinius had said it would. Tatius’s bound and unconscious body raised with little effort from the mine floor to Rufus above.

Albus let out a quiet sigh. Until recently, the outpost had been a quiet one. To have two major events in one day defied the odds: First, a rebel attack involving a single soldier, a mystery Imperial appears, and now Tatius gone mad. Albus’s command–if it could be called that–was disintegrating. How would the mine produce frost-stone for the Empire if his strongest miner sustained a broken wrist?

“Fire!” Nonus shouted. “There’s a fire in Quintus’s lab.”

“Plinius,” Albus switched mental gears. “You and Gallus ferry water from the aqueduct to the fire.”

“Yes, Sir,” Both men said. Gallus didn’t ask how he would accomplish that with one less arm. Instead he grabbed a bucket with his good hand and raced for the underground aqueduct.

“Rufus,” Albus shouted up. “Secure Tatius in his quarters. Remove any sharp objects and make sure I have the only key.”

“On it,” Rufus answered.

At the lab’s threshold, Albus shielded his eyes against the blaze.

By some miracle, the flames kept to the patient’s cot while most of the black smoke, carrying the scent of charred flesh, escaped through the ceiling slits. Nonus had moved anything flammable against the opposite wall. And, the cavern’s stone surfaces prevented the fire from spreading further.

Albus thanked the one true deity for that small charity and noted Nonus’s competence in the face of emergency. He would have to reward the action when everything settled back down.

Nonus looked over at the commander. “I don’t understand it, Sir. The bodies just burst into flame.”

Quintus raced down the corridor toward Albus as Gallus thrust the first bucket of water onto the pyre. A small section of the fire hissed, vanishing into steam.

“What happened?” asked Quintus.

Albus failed to restrain his anger. “You tell me, Quintus.” He glared at the wizard as Gallus rushed in with another bucket. “I was dealing with Tatius. You were supposed to be in the lab getting me answers.”

“I got what I could,” Quintus explained, fluster in his face. “The wounded soldier died before I could get anything more than his name.” Quintus moved to let Gallus by with another bucket. “He said his name was Cato. I gave him some Chill Bone potion since he was in the desert for so long. He drank it, doubled over, and died. I left Nonus with the bodies while I brought Otho some potion.”

“Curses,” Albus muttered. Nothing was going right today. “Nonus said the bodies burst into flame. Could your potion have–”

“Absolutely not,” Quintus said, fluster turning to irritation. “Bodies don’t just start fires and neither do my potions.”

Albus held out a hand toward the fire. “Then you tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

Albus sighed. “What can you tell me.”

Quintus stroked his beard. “The rebel did have fresh wounds, as if from battle. Aside from that, I have nothing new.”

Albus nodded, processing the information.

Gallus rushed by with his fourth bucket. The fire was nearly dead.

Perplexed, Albus traced through what he knew: an unarmed Imperial soldier running through the desert alone, chased by a single rebel soldier on a suicide mission. What had he said? You should have let me kill it. Vicis is your problem now.

“Does the name Vicis mean anything to you?” Albus asked Quintus as Gallus put out the last of the fire. The miner sat down in a chair, breathing heavily, and cradling his broken wrist.

“Vicis?”

“It was the last thing the rebel said before he died.”

Quintus tugged at his beard. “Maybe. Nothing specific springs to mind, but it has a familiar ring to it. I’ll check my books and get back to you.”

“You can tell me when I return.”

“You’re leaving?” asked Quintus.

“It will be nightfall soon,” Albus said, staring at the charred bodies now on the floor. “Rufus and I will scout the rebel camp. If I can’t find answers here, I might find some there.”

“Just the two of you?” asked Quintus. “Is that wise?”

Albus shrugged. “Tatius has gone mad. Gallus is wounded. You’re no soldier. That leaves Otho, Rufus, and Nonus as capable for combat. Otho is next in command and therefore must stay here. Nonus will cover his back. That leaves me with Rufus.”

“What of Plinius?”

“He did well down in the mines, but he’s skittish,” answered Albus. “I need stealth if I’m to get the answers I seek.”

“Very well,” said Quintus. “I’ll prepare a potion for Fire Breath to keep you both warm at night and Chill Bone potion should you be caught in the desert at daybreak.”

Albus started to wave the suggestion away.

“Don’t argue Albus. It weighs nothing and having it can save your life.”

“Fine. If it doesn’t distract you from researching this Vicis.”

#

With the setting sun, No Man’s Land transformed from a furnace with its shimmering waves of heat by day to iceless tundra by night. Frigid winds strafed the land, capable of numbing a man’s soul while a star-littered sky and amber moon made lantern light unnecessary.

Albus and Rufus laid against the cracked desert floor, the rebel camp less than a mile away.

Rufus popped the cork to the Fire Breath potion Quintus had given him and drank it all. “A strange thing to crave heat after despising it all day.”

Albus snorted. “Hardship makes a man stronger while comfort makes him weaker. Your perspective will change if you seek out the qualities of life that will make you better. Now hand me the looking glass.”

Rufus obeyed, brows bent in thought.

The looking glass extended into a conical stick. It was another gift from Quintus. To help with your stealth, he’d said. Albus looked though it now and understood what the wizard meant. Without the glass, the rebel camp was nothing more than a dark speck in the distance. With the glass, Albus was standing at their front door. Or at least his eyes were.

Through the lancets of the rebel’s dugout, Albus could see inside, but no watchman.

“It’s empty,” Albus stated, unsure of his own words.

“Sir?” asked Rufus, sounding equally uncertain.

“Quintus’s toy allows me to see inside the dugout,” Albus explained. “There’s no one on guard.”

“What should we do?”

“Investigate,” Albus answered. For the first time in five years, he was on the offensive. His heart agreed with the decision, hopping along at an excited pace.

The Enemy

Halfway through his limited library, Quintus found the vague reference he was seeking. He found it in a tome of ancient lore. Most of the stories were long abandoned as fictitious accounts spun by overeager men desperate to make their name known. The reference was nothing more than a bard’s archaic poem.

Quintus read the poem aloud as if casting some arcane spell.

“From deep depths unknown,

arise Vicis, face unshown.

Beware world of man

this forever changing clan.

From the endless sands

Power will change hands.

Frost and snake heads,

weapons a Vicis dreads.”

Quintus shut the book, more confused now than before he opened it. Why would a rebel soldier whisper this long forgotten name to a commander of his enemy? Quintus looked over to the burnt body as if it may answer the question. He looked closer. Maybe the bodies could answer the question.

Quintus shot up from the chair, leaving the book open on the table. He dashed about the room collecting his autopsy utensils.

He’d have to be quick. If the others knew what he was doing, they’d object. Autopsies were viewed as desecration. But, Albus needed answers and superstition was a lousy excuse for ignorance.

#

In the corridor outside Quintus’s laboratory, Nonus/Vicis listened at the door, a snarl wrenching at his lips. His hiding place wouldn’t last long if the wizard solved the puzzle. He had to be eliminated.

Nonus/Vicis tested the latch. It was locked. Now he couldn’t kill the wizard without making a lot of noise. He needed an alternative solution.

“Let me out!” A voice called from the floor above. “I can feel the heat. Don’t leave me with the heat.”

Nonus/Vicis smiled, his new strategy taking form. He looked down at his hand, two fingers bent and twisted together, painfully taking the form of a key. A key he’d seen Rufus give the commander.

#

Tatius lay naked on the floor. The stone felt cold against his skin. He knew it wouldn’t last. The heat from his body would make that spot warm.

“Please,” he begged. “Don’t keep me here with the heat.”

“Tatius,” someone whispered from the other side of his door. “Tatius, are you awake?”

“Wh–who’s there?” Tatius asked.

“It’s Nonus.” The voice was familiar. It was Nonus.

“I won’t go up. You can’t make me!” Tatius shouted.

“I’m not here to make you go up, Tatius. I’m here to help you keep the heat away. Forever.”

Tatius didn’t speak. He didn’t breathe. Could Nonus be serious?

“I’m going to open the door, Tatius,” Nonus warned. “I stole the key from Otho. Don’t do anything rash. Okay?”

Tatius heard a click. The knob turned and the door opened. It was Nonus, standing over him, a kind smile on his face.

“Don’t worry, dear Tatius,” Nonus said. “I’ll tell you the secret for keeping the heat away.” Nonus knelt on one knee, motioning Tatius closer.

Tempted by the promise, Tatius crawled on hands and knees, bending his head to listen.

“Good boy,” Nonus said, his cold fingers combed through Tatius’s hair, beating back the heat.

Tatius groaned with relief. “What’s the secret?” he asked.

“I’ll do better than tell you. I’ll show you,” Nonus said, tightening his grip on the soldier’s head and hair.

Tatius’s instincts kicked in. For the first time since he heard Nonus’s voice, he felt naked, exposed and vulnerable. He tried to pull free but Nonus’s hands were carved from stone, unrelenting.

Cold lips touched his ear.

“What are you doing?” Tatius squawked, trying to peel away the fingers from his head.

Nonus didn’t answer. Instead, something wet and slimy pushed through those lips, and wriggled against Tatius’s ear. It slithered and pressed its way down the ear canal.

“No!” Tatius screamed. “Get away from me.”

The wormlike object made its way further, undulating deeper.

Tatius howled.

There was a pinch of pain. His screams sounded suddenly shallow, far away.

Danger. Heat. Enemy. Esca–

#

Quintus stood over the two corpses struggling with the facts he’d found. The first detail was in the relative size of the bodies. Granted the fire would have melted away some of the meat, but the basics like height would have remained the same. Somehow, Cato had grown taller in the fire while his muscles had shrunk.

The other inconsistency was in the parts that couldn’t burn. Quintus recalled finding seven copper pieces on the body of the dead rebel before the fire while Cato had nothing. Now, it was Cato’s corpse that had seven copper pieces and the rebel none. How could that be? He knew it was probable that Nonus looted the rebel’s corpse in his absence. But that didn’t explain why Cato suddenly had the exact same number of copper coins. Unless the ruined body in front of him were Nonus, not Cato.

Quintus waved the thought away. He knew it couldn’t be. He saw Nonus alive and well.

Vicis, face unshown. That ancient poem’s verse highlighted in his mind. Quintus, then, remembered another relevant piece of information. It was from his days in the Academy. There were rumors of a spell capable of stealing the identity of others. A power sought by many wizards, but mastered by none.

The rumor had to come from somewhere. Could the man he thought was Nonus be someone else? Could someone have mastered the spell? And, if this potential enemy could assume the form of another, how could Quintus be sure?

The Magic

Nonus/Vicis locked Tatius’s door behind him. The deed done, he’d have to move fast. Quintus wouldn’t take long to figure it all out. When he did, no precaution Nonus/Vicis took would be enough. With four humans remaining in the camp, he was outnumbered. It was time to start changing those odds.

“I heard someone screaming,” Plinius said as he entered the corridor, focused on Nonus/Vicis.

Plinius was the weakest, an ideal first candidate. “I heard it too,” Nonus/Vicis said. “It echoed through the hall, but I think it came from below. Let’s check it out.”

Plinius nodded. He disappeared into his room and came out with sworn drawn. Nonus/Vicis stifled a low growl. He’d seen what sword toting humans were capable of in the rebel camp.

“Come on,” Plinius called, descending the ladder.

Nonus/Vicis followed.

The storage corridor was devoid of life. Even the door to Quintus’s lab was closed. “There’s no one here,” Plinius stated, looking back up the ladder. “Maybe it wasn’t from down here. We should go up and check.”

“Or maybe it was Gallus down in the mine. He could be hurt.”

Plinius’s eyes shot open. He glanced over at the ladder dropping down into the vertical tunnel, the rope pulley hanging in the middle.

“Let’s go over and call down to him. See if he needs help,” Nonus/Vicis offered.

“Good idea.”

The two rushed over. Plinius bent over, raising his hands to his mouth. “Gallus!”

Nonus/Vicis didn’t waste time. With a strong shove, he pushed Plinius down the shaft head first. The startled miner screeched, arms waving until his voice was silenced by a single crack.

“Plinius?” Gallus called from below. He was coming to investigate.

#

Gallus rushed across the sieve room. Startled by Plinus’s call, he woke from his nap. Quintus’s painkillers had left him groggy.

When he reached the bottom of the vertical tunnel his jaw dropped. Plinius was upside down, foot resting on one of the ladder’s rungs while his head bent to the side at an inhuman angle. The life had left the miner’s eyes. In shock, Gallus walked over to his friend’s body, laying him on his back.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it a second later. Gallus’s vision started to blur, his eyes wet.

“How?” he asked Plinius. “Why?”

Plinius wasn’t bright, but he was careful. Could he have slipped and fallen? As if by instinct, Gallus looked up the vertical tunnel to get a glimpse of any rational reason for his friend’s sudden demise.

Before Gallus had time to process what he saw, it was too late. Bent over the lip of the tunnel, Nonus stared down at him, a cruel smile stretched across his face, the pulley’s bucket in his hand. The bucket dropped, crashing into Gallus’s head.

The lanterns lining the walls appeared dimmer to Gallus at that moment. They flickered with the intensity they normally had, but the light was dull. The room grew darker–vision blurred–breathing slowed–someone was laughing–tired–eyes heavy–nothing.

#

Quintus pushed the table against the door, piling on chairs, anything to keep it out.

There came a pounding at the door. “Come on Quintus, open up.” It was Nonus’s voice, but Quintus knew better than to think it was the priest. There had been screams, loud noises, conflict.

“Stay back. The others will–”

“There are no others, Quintus,” Nonus said. “It’s just you and me now.”

Quintus shook all over. He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t ashamed of his fear as it washed over him. The thing outside had every intention of killing him, or worse. Fear was rational.

“Very well, Quintus. If you won’t let me in, I’ll get creative.”

Quintus heard Nonus’s footsteps moving down the corridor. He was tempted to feel safe, but knew better. The creature would come back and if Quintus wasn’t ready, he’d die.

The wizard scanned the laboratory, hand shaking as he stroked his beard. There were many chemicals and reagents at his disposal, but what would work? His eyes spotted the open book on the table. The poem spoke of weapons against the Vicis; Frost and snake heads. Quintus didn’t know how snake heads played a role, but frost seemed straight forward; His Chill Bone potion certainly had an effect. The question was how to use frost as a weapon.

The answer was there. It was what separated a wizard from an ordinary alchemist. Magic. Real Magic. Quintus pulled a jar of mage-essence from the shelf. He dumped a healthy portion into the mortar.

As he worked, the implications registered in his mind. Magic didn’t come cheap. A wizard paid for it with his spirit. Sacrifice was required. And, at his age, he may only have so much to give. He grabbed frost-stone from a bowl and added them to the mortar.

A heavy object slammed into the door, causing Quintus to jump. Another slam. Wood splintered. The monster had an ax.

“You should’ve played nice, Quintus,” Nonus shouted. “I would’ve made it quick, but now I’m not so sure. Perhaps you’ll make an excellent vessel.” The ax slammed again, forming a small breach. It wouldn’t be long.

Quintus ground the frost-stone with the pestle. He snatched a large pinch of powdered-rage, adding it to the mix.

The ax broke through. A hole formed large enough to fit three fingers. Another swing sent splinters scattering onto the barricaded table.

“Almost there,” Quintus whispered. The frost-stone was close to a fine powder.

Nonus thrust a hand through the hole. His fingers traced down to the lock and turned it. The hand disappeared back through the hole.

Quintus dumped the powder into a beaker of water and stirred.

The table legs screeched across the stone floor as Nonus pushed. It was strong. A crack soon formed as the door opened little by little.

Quintus drank. The mix poured cold down through his body as if ice formed on his innards. Breath turned to vapor with each exhale.

The Vicis forced the door open enough to squeeze through. Nonus smiled. His steps were slow. He had all the time in the world. “I think I’ll make you a vessel after all. I promise you it’s an excruciating process.”

“Stay back,” warned Quintus, his body growing colder. He plucked a lantern from the wall and chucked it.

Nonus swatted, shattering the glass casing, its flaming contents splashed against the bookshelf. Old parchment from Quintus’s books ignited instantly. Fiery fingers lept from one area of the lab to the next, black smoke billowing up to the ceiling.

The monster’s strong hands reached out and grasped the sides of the wizard’s head.

Quintus sucked in a deep breath. It was now or never. Their faces inches apart, he exhaled, his breath freezing everything in its path. Crystals formed on the face of his enemy.

The Vicis screamed out in pain, falling back.

Quintus looked down at his hands. They were blue.

This was his moment. His moment to perform real Magic. His body somehow created an unnatural cold. A cold he could direct. But, how long he could keep it up, he didn’t know.

Quintus reached out. Waves of frost emanated from his fingertips, embracing the Vicis. It stumbled and fell. Each movement was slow, weak. There was fear on its face for the first time as it struggled to crawl from the room.

Quintus followed. He focused the blue light of cold onto the fleeing creature.

Nonus squeezed through the door on all fours. Quintus pushed passed, stepping between the Vicis and the ascending ladder.

“Back!” Quintus ordered, herding the imposter toward the mine’s vertical tunnel.

Quintus started to feel weak, the magic exacting its stiff price on his body. It could be minutes, maybe less.

“Back!” He pushed the cold forward. The air crackled as the corridor’s foodstuffs froze in its path.

Nonus let out a wounded screech before slithering down the vertical tunnel with Quintus close behind.

The Vicis

Albus stood at the center of the rebel dugout, sword drawn, scanning the dark interior as Rufus cowered outside.

“Nothing,” Albus said, staring at the bare table and empty watchman’s chair. “No bodies. No sign of struggle.”

“How can there be nothing?” asked Rufus. “They wouldn’t abandon their only outpost.”

“No they wouldn’t,” Albus muttered.

He walked over to the ladder. Complete darkness rested at the bottom.

“I’m Commander Albus of Caisus,” he shouted.

“Sir!” Rufus squeaked at his booming voice.

“I invoke a parlay,” Albus finished.

No answer.

“Nothing,” he said again. “We’ll have to go down and–”

“Sir!” Rufus shouted again.

Albus rushed out of the dugout. The recruit’s outstretched finger focused on a meandering line of dark smoke splitting the bright amber moon.

“That’s–” Albus said, putting the looking glass to his eye. “–my outpost.”

“Another fire?” Rufus asked.

A knot twisted at the base of Albus’s stomach. “We have to go.”

“What about the rebels?”

“If I had to guess–” Albus started running, shouting over his shoulder, “–they’re all dead.”

#

Albus raced across the desert. To gain speed, he’d discarded his helmet and armor a mile passed. Up ahead, the outpost-–his outpost–approached fast.

Albus glanced over his shoulder. A winded Rufus had started to fall behind.

“Move it!”

“I–I’m sorry, Sir,” Rufus yelled back, out of breath.

Albus cursed the soldier. Didn’t he know what was at stake?

“Just…don’t you dare stop running, Recruit.”

“Y–Ye–Yes, Sir.”

The knot in Albus’s stomach tightened as he approached the dugout. It was absent of lantern light. There were no alarm bells to signal his approach. A part of him hoped the watchman had simply fallen asleep, but another part–that knot in his stomach part, told him the Vicis was responsible.

Albus drew his sword and dropped the scabbard before ducking through the threshold. It was marginally darker inside the dugout, but enough light filtered through the lancets to create a silhouette of a man seated in the watchman’s chair. Small ears, large head, and broad shoulders–it was Otho. A dagger’s handle jutted from between his shoulder blades. Dead.

“Back!” Quintus’s voice floated up from deeper down.

Albus left Otho and descended. In a hurry, he poked his head in each of the rooms. Tatius’s door was still locked while Quintus’s had burnt down to the hinges along with everything else in the lab.

“Back I say!” Quintus shouted from further below.

Albus rushed down the mine’s vertical tunnel. The air around him grew cold enough to force a shiver.

At the bottom, Plinius and Gallus lay broken and motionless. Quintus was on the floor, head propped against the sieve apparatus. The wizard’s hand stretched out toward the tunnels as blue shimmers extended from his fingers. Ice coated the floor and walls in its path.

“Quintus,” Albus said.

Quintus turned his head. A once gray beard had turned stark white. The fleshy parts of his face had sunk against the skull, leaving behind a weak old man.

“Albus, thank The One you’re here,” said Quintus before he coughed. “I didn’t think I could hold on long enough.”

“I’m here now, Quintus,” Albus said as he took the wizard’s head in his hand, the knot in his stomach hardening with resolve. “Now tell me, where’s this Vicis and how do I kill it?”

“It’s not that easy,” Quintus’s voice softened as some of the light left his eyes. Albus had to crane his head to hear the rest. “Listen.” Quintus laid a hand on the commander’s arm. “It wants to infest and destroy the Empire, but can’t get there alone. It’s weakened by the cold. It wouldn’t make it across the mountains separating No Man’s Land from the rest of the Empire. Not without the caravan to ferry it there.”

“The caravan due in two days?”

Quintus nodded. “Frost and snake heads.”

Albus shook his head, confused.

“Weapons the Vicis dreads,” Quintus continued. “Frost is the cold that weakens it, but I don’t know about the snake heads.”

“I don’t understand–” Albus started to say, but stopped as Quintus’s eyes slid shut. The cold vapors of his breath were gone. He was dead.

“Troublesome people, wizards,” Albus’s voice emerged from the dark mine tunnel on the right.

Albus looked up, questioning if he’d actually heard it.

From the shadows, a man–matching Albus in every detail–walked out into the sieve room, sword in hand. The commander stared at his reflection. Neither of them wore armor as the real Albus had ditched his in the desert for speed.

Albus set Quintus’s head to the floor with care, removed the ruby ring from the wizard’s beard, and climbed to his feet. He slid the ring on the thumb of his sword hand. Quintus would be there in spirit as he plunged the blade in the monster’s chest. Justice would be served.

“Vicis,” The real Albus growled through gritted teeth, sword leveled at his enemy’s throat.

“Commander, I’m here and–” said Rufus, climbing down. He stopped at the sight of the two dead miners. His gaze moved to dead Quintus against the apparatus, then the commander and his double. “May The One protect me for my eyes deceive me.”

Albus/Vicis pointed his sword at the real Albus. “Stop the imposter, Rufus. He killed Otho and the others.”

The Decision

Rufus moved at the sound of Albus’s booming voice, prepared to attack the other.

“Stop,” ordered the other Albus. “This thing,” he pointed at his reflection, “once held the form of that wounded Imperial. It was responsible for the death of all those rebels and every one of our fellows here.”

Rufus stared at the two identical men. “You both look and speak the same,” he whined. “I’m sorry, Sir. I don’t know what to do.”

“Simple. Kill him,” An Albus said, again pointing his sword at the other commander. Rufus didn’t budge.

Rufus cursed himself for not having better sense. The real commander would know how to pick and he couldn’t exactly ask that man’s advice right now.

Forced to rely on his own faculties, Rufus scanned the two men. Both wore the uniform of an Imperial soldier, absent any implements of armor. Swords were standard issue. Identical down to the placement of every last hair, nothing separated them. Everything except…except for a ruby ring. On the thumb of one of the Albuses, it was Quintus’s ring.

How did that help? It certainly separated them at least. But, who was the real Albus? The ring could be loot from the imposter’s kill or it could have been for the commander’s strong sense of justice. To have Quintus there as he drove in the finishing blow. But, which was it?

“Curses, Recruit,” The Ringless-Albus spouted. “Your indecision is unacceptable. I gave you an order to kill this imposter. Now, kill him!”

Albus–with a ring–turned and stared at Rufus. “Every man has to make their own decisions. Time to be a man, Recruit. Make your decision and live with it, but most importantly…make a decision.”

Rufus scratched his cheek. There was only one person who ever tried to make him better despite his many failings.

Rufus raised his sword at his choice and said, “Surrender or be killed.”

“No!” Ringless-Albus screamed, raised his sword, and charged.

Rufus swung first. His blade was deflected and a sandal punched up into his gut, knocking him against the sieve apparatus.

A sword pierced the shoulder of Rufus’s chosen ally. That ringed-commander fell to the ground with a painful bellow.

Ringless-Albus charged Rufus. Strong hands wrapped around his throat, bending his back over the sieve’s wall with incredible force. Thumbs were pressing into his windpipe.

A roar broke through the strangling grunts of Rufus and his attacker. The Ringed-Albus, sword still in his shoulder, rushed in and embraced the man at Rufus’s throat. He lifted and dropped his double face-first against the brass mesh of the sieve.

“Pull the rope!” Ringed-Albus yelled.

Rufus did as he was told, throwing his weight down on the rope. The layers of brass mesh–sharp enough to cut stone–moved in opposing directions, shearing the face pressed against them.

Ringless-Albus let out a hideous screech as his face was removed layer by layer until, within seconds, only a bloodied stump remained above the chin. His body slid out from under Albus’s hand and crumpled to the ground.

Albus’s chuckle was dry. “Snake heads.”

“Sir?” Rufus asked, between breaths.

“Frost and snake heads,” Albus said, staring at Quintus’s ring on his thumb. “The wizard was there to the end, after all.” He looked up at Rufus. “How do you kill a snake, Recruit?”

Rufus scratched his head. The question felt like a trick. “Cut off its head?”

“Exactly,” Albus replied, looking down at the headless imposter at his feet.

The Inevitable

“With the rebel’s camp wiped clean,” Rufus said to Albus, “we’ll never have another moment of excitement out here.”

Albus nodded, never taking his eyes off the caravan as it grew smaller against the horizon. “May we be that lucky, Second.” Albus used the young soldier’s promoted rank.

Despite the dishonorable post in No Man’s Land, Albus had helped save the Empire from a dangerous enemy. It was enough to lighten his heart for the first time in five years. If he was left out in the desert for the remainder of his service, he knew he could be satisfied. Nothing could take away his final victory.

#

Tatius looked out through the barred window of his cell on wheels, the rear carriage of the caravan. He watched as the Imperial outpost disappeared against the desert terrain.

A sinister smile stretched across his face.

It would be at least a day before anyone found the mutilated corpse of the real Tatius tucked under the cot. The human’s chest had ripped open where Tatius-Vicis crawled out. And, by the time the vessel was discovered, Tatius–or Tacius/Vicis–would make a miraculous recovery from his heat madness. After the snow-laden mountains, the caravan’s soldiers would make excellent vessels themselves. From there, the Empire in all its haughty pride would crumble from within, a Vicis at its head.

• Continue Reading

Published by Karl Rademacher on September 29, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 23, Issue 23 Stories, Short Stories, Stories

Sisters

by Nick T. Chan

In the still moments before dawn, when all is as dark as the bottom of the sea, I turn my head from my sister and dream. In my dream, we are not conjoined. We are not fused from breast to stomach. I am not destined to cast spells until Isabella dies. Instead, I walk straight. I do not crab-scuttle with her. Alone and proud, I am with the love of my life. When I wake, I can’t remember his face. All that remains is that Isabella was alive, yet I was alone. They say the dreams of mages are prophetic, but that cannot be, because the only way I will ever be alone is if I murder Isabella.

This morning the dream ends early. I am woken by something warm in my right hand that wasn’t there before. I open my eyes. It is a parchment scroll. It’s probably from my friend Emily, who has not written to me for months. I wake fully and winter passes through my veins as I realise what the paper’s warmth means. The scroll was created by magic. Emily’s twin Susan was on the verge of death before we fled the Parliament of Mages, so she can’t have had the power to create the letter. It has to be from the Parliament.

I stand, intending to toss the letter into the fireplace. Standing wakes Isabella. She grabs my wrist and my throw falls short. I strive to pick it up as Isabella pulls away. We dance on the spot, revolving spasmodically, and then her greater strength wins. She squats, forcing me to do so too, and picks the letter up.

“It’s magic,” she says. “They must need you to cast a heroic spell.” She pauses and clasps the scroll to her chest. “How many songs will they write about me after I die?”

“None,” I say. A spasm of coughing overtakes me, bright blood flecking my hand, each spot jewel bright. She says the same thing she always does after each one of my fits. “It’s you or me. If you cast a spell like they want, the people will remember my name. If I’m going to die, I want to be remembered.”

And I use my usual retort. “Murder is a sin.”

The coughing intensifies until thick coins of clotted dark red blood coat my hand and darkness claws at the edges of my sight. I cannot breathe or think. Isabella embraces me until it stops.

“Read the letter,” she says. “You keep saying that you’ll find some way to save me, but we both know it’s a lie.” She pauses. “We’re dying. Do we have a week? A day? An hour? Please.”

She is right, but casting a spell will accelerate the rate at which Isabella drains my life, forcing me to cast more and more spells. I cough again, and suddenly I am tired. Isabella believes Parliament is a force for good, while I know better. But it doesn’t matter what I believe, not when my beliefs will lead to both our deaths.

I unfurl the letter. “It’s blank,” Isabella says. “Why would a mage create it?”

I trace my finger across the paper and my fingers tingle. “I have to cast a spell to reveal the words,” I say. “It’s a small spell. It won’t give us much more time.”

“Do it.”

The words flow easily though it is a year since I have cast one. Isabella pushes a short hiss of air between gritted teeth at each syllable. As soon as the spell is finished, the scuttling tickle within my chest ceases and crow’s feet wrinkles appear on Isabella’s ashen face. Every part of me burns with life.

Flowing script, as black as blood in the moonlight, fills the page. Each letter twitches in a way that makes me uncertain whether it has really moved at all. I read aloud. “The Ever-dying King’s life is ending and the Worm Nil will soon awaken. I have a plan to stop it. Parliament does not know. I arrive in three hours. Draven.”

My hand shakes as I lower the letter. When the Ever-dying King dies, then there will be chaos. Without him, spells cost the weaker twin exponentially more. The Parliament will be powerless. As corrupt as they are, the alternative is anarchy. And worse, during the time between the death of the King’s current body and the re-birth of his new one, the Worm is unleashed.

Draven. Emily’s letters wrote of him. All I know is that she fell in love with him. He was going to save her twin Susan, but he failed and broke her heart. “It’s a trap. He can’t destroy the Worm,” I say.

“They’ll remember us forever if we do it,” she says. “I could have a statue in the grand square. Children will be praised for being like me.” She claps my hands and forces me into a spin around the room, false gaiety in her eyes. “The selfless Isabella, who sacrificed her life for all mankind.”

“No, it can’t be done.” I look away from her. She grabs me by the chin and forces my face back to its natural position, facing her.

“Can’t or won’t?” she says. “And does it matter?”

“It will kill you,” I say. “Take how much that spell hurt and multiply it by a thousand.”

“It will be worth it to be remembered forever,” she says. She snatches the letter away and reads it out loud behind my back, rolling each word around in her mouth as if they were hard-boiled lollies. “Why did you say Draven can’t kill the Worm?” she says. “I don’t remember him.”

“He was Emily’s lover,” I say. “He joined Parliament after we left. She said they discovered him in some small village. He wouldn’t have had enough time to learn how to cast spells.”

“How can he kill the Worm then?”

“He lies. Parliament is trying to catch us again.”

Isabella is silent. We watch each other go to the toilet, bathe and menstruate. But Isabella’s head is a locked box. She cares about clothes and makeup and dancing and men and a thousand other irrelevant things. Yet if I think about her death, my heart feels like a pebble dropped down an endless well.

I toss the letter into the fire, half-expecting it to resist the flames and hiss like a snake. It catches fire. Isabella picks up the poker lying in the grate and pushes the letter further into the flames. It is a strange pleasure to watch her flawless face, though she stole her beauty from me. If we do the impossible and kill the Worm Nil, this is how the painters and sculptors will depict her. When we were children, she had a mournful shrunken frog-face. Now men stare at her despite our freakishness. Every day I become more haggard, my skin as tight as papier-mâché over my skull, and my hair falls out in fist-sized clumps.

Isabella pushes the last log onto its side so that the fire dies, leaving parchment fragments interposed amongst the ashes. “We’re not going to run,” she says. “Parliament is still scared of you.” I try to move so I can pack our meagre belongings. She doesn’t budge. The join between our bodies stretches and I gasp. It must hurt Isabella as well, but her face is stone-still. I strain until the pain becomes too great. She never flinches.

“Don’t you trust me to make the right decision?” she says. No, I do not. Her head is filled with glory, but the dead care not for adulation. They are dust and worms and a statue is no substitute for my sister. I strain again.

The coughs overtake me without warning. When they stop, the front of our dress is covered with thick, gritty blood.

“Do you want to become oathbound if Parliament catches us?” I say.

“There’s no time to run anymore Mary,” she says. “I can feel our heart slowing.” The wind whistles through the gaps in our stone shack and the fire grows cold. I cough and the blood is fresh and bright. Dust eddies in rays of sunlight through the window as the sun rises. She looks at the angle of the sun. “He must be here soon.” She drags me outside and scans the sky.

A vast Zeppelin descends from the sky behind Isabella’s back. There is a woman nailed to the front and oh gods, its Emily. What happened to her? Then I realize my mistake. She is the globe. They have made her oathbound. Emily’s body spreads into a great puffer-fish of pale white flesh, making her the figurehead of a living Zeppelin. One of the reasons I left the Parliament was because of the cruelty of their punishments against those who defied them and now it has happened to Emily.

I sob and the sound alerts Isabella to Emily’s descent. “She’s hollow inside,” she says. “I can see a shadow.” She uses her palm to shade her eyes. “Two people standing side by side. Did Emily ever tell you how Draven and his twin were joined?”

“What has he done to her?” I say, my voice cracking.

“He can’t have,” Isabella says. “Only the senior members of Parliament can make someone oathbound.”

Tears blind my eyes. “No. Draven must have done it. Emily never defied them.”

I watch Emily’s face as she comes closer, hoping for a smile when she recognizes me. Her face remains blank. Oh, my poor Emily. She lands on the grass with a soft thud. She shudders and then she splits like a quartered orange, granting entry to her insides.

Draven steps out of Emily. Recognition spears through me. He is the literal man of my dreams. Ever since puberty, I have dreamed of him. I never remembered his face after waking, but now he is in front of me. High cheekbones, deep blue eyes and a mouth made to whisper sweet promises. My cheeks flush and our heart beats faster as I meet his gaze. Gods, he is beautiful and there is no other word for him.

A thin band of skin attaches Draven to his twin at the hip. The ash-colored twin is so thin sunlight almost passes through it and it is so withered that it could be either man or woman. Its eyes are closed.

Draven approaches us. His twin mirrors his walk, but it does not open its eyes. When twins are on the verge of dying, they retreat deep inside themselves, clinging onto life before the final spell. How could Draven know spells well enough to drain his twin to this degree?

“What have you done to her?” I say, putting contempt into my voice, but at the same time unable to tear my eyes away from him.

He holds his hands up. “I am no friend of Parliament. Like you, she tried to leave, but they weren’t scared of her. Their punishment sent her insane.” He strokes her cheek, but she doesn’t react. “I couldn’t save her. They didn’t know we were lovers, so when they asked for a mage to take charge of her, I volunteered.” Isabella nods, too eager to believe. It is plausible. I want to believe him. Gods, I want to.

The shock of seeing my dream lover in the flesh has kept me upright, but the adrenaline leaches and I stumble. Draven and his twin spring forward and catch us. The arm that catches me is strong. His other arm supports Isabella. His twin holds us too and its skin is like dried autumn leaves, brittle and ready to crack. I look into his perfect face, but he is looking at Isabella and when I turn my head back to its natural position, she has locked gazes with him.

Draven draws us back to our feet, his hands changing position. His hand stays over Isabella’s waist. The twin holds me upright. After a long, frozen, moment, he lets go and enters Emily.

“The Worm Nil will wake within days,” he says. “We have to return to Firewater now.”

“The Ever-dying King was healthy when we left. I can cast small spells to keep us both alive.”

“You are a long way from Firewater and do not know the news,” he says. “He is dying. He has been dying for months.”

“But he is not dead.”

“Before he lapsed into the sleep before death, he asked the Traders of Sorrows to exchange his pain for another’s sorrow,” he says. “They told him that he could not swap death.”

My last hope disappears. If the current King is dying, then Isabella must supply all the power for the spell. We do not have long to live if I do not cast spells and the new King will not be born for weeks. Isabella follows Draven and I do not resist.

The entrance seals behind us. Inside is cramped and Draven almost stands on top of us. Emily’s insides are deep red and waxy at first, but then her walls glow white and became transparent. She rises and my insides churn as our shack and the garden vanish into the distance. Isabella squeezes my hand. She had no fear of heights, but she knows my discomfort. I close my eyes, but I still see Draven in my mind’s eye. Better to open them again and I do so.

“What happened the last time a mage thought they could kill the Worm? How many people died?” I say.

Draven flicks a glance my way and then looks at Isabella. “Maybe three thousand died twenty years ago,” he says, his voice almost lost in the wind’s noise. “But that is not what will happen this time.”

Isabella leans sideways to hear better and I must follow. He smells of soap and rose water, but beneath is the odor of his dying twin. Its eyes open for a second, salt-white and blind, and then they close again.

“What spell will kill the Worm?” Isabella says.

Draven raises his hand and for a moment I fear he is about to run his fingers through Isabella’s hair. I hold my breath. “I have looked into the histories,” he says. “There have been four attempts to destroy the Worm Nil.” At the word destroy, he clenches his hand and then he opens it, waggling his fingers with a smile. I exhale. “Each attempt has angered the Worm, worsening its destruction. Thousands more die than is necessary.”

We float through the air at tremendous speed, passing over the mountain-graveyards formed from Worldstalker bones. Our shadow darkens the Forest of Silence where the trees eat those foolish enough to speak. And then we are following the Firewater River which flows to the Burning Sea, upon which the city of Firewater sits. In the shadows of the mountains, the Sea gutters with a low blue flame and the hellfish burn as they leap from the surface. By mid-morning, the shadows will have passed, the flames will have died and the hellfish will be edible.

Draven continues to speak. “No one has thought about when the Worm stops its destruction.”

“You are going to induce the new Ever-dying King as soon as the old one dies,” Isabella says.

Draven smiles, genuine delight in his grin, and he locks gazes with Isabella. “As soon as the new King is born, the Worm vanishes. If we bring the New King forth from the ground early, then the Worm’s damage will be limited. It took no skill to write a modified inducement spell, only skill to say it.”

“Cast it yourself,” I say.

“Any mage who approaches your skill has already drained their twin.”

“The first person who touches the new Ever-dying King will be the regent until the new King comes of age won’t they?” I say.

He talks again, too fast and too smooth. “My father died fighting the Worm Nil. I’ve always dreamed of stopping it.”

“So you’ll be regent to honor his memory?”

“Emily said you were a hypocrite,” he says. “You didn’t leave Parliament to save your sister. You left because they didn’t agree with you how to use spells. You spout fine words about the tyranny of Parliament, but if the chance to do good comes about, you run the other way.”

“Don’t lie,” I say. “This is for your own glory.”

“Mary,” Isabella says. “You must cast the spell.”

“So he can gain the throne for the next eighteen years?”

Before I can continue, Draven interrupts me. “Emily was your friend, but she lied about me. I am a good man. Love turned sour breeds lies and she lied.”

She never wrote about him at all except to say she had a new lover. He was going to somehow save her twin Susan. And he didn’t and then she wrote: I hate him and nothing more. He was less important to Emily than she thought it seems. I decide to bait him. “She told the truth.”

“If you cast the spell, you will be there when the new King is born,” he says. “You can be the first one to lay your hands upon him.”

This catches me so off-guard that I can do nothing but stutter. He has offered me the regency. “I…cannot.”

“She told me you hated how Parliament casts spells due to greed rather than where they’d do the greatest good,” he says. His eyes flick up to look at Isabella, back to me and then into space again. “Parliament would have to obey you. You could ensure that spells are only cast for good.”

“You would throw away such power?” I say. His hand hovers above Isabella’s knee, but does not touch. I want him to put his hand on my thigh and slide it beneath our dress. I want him to kiss me. How can I be so weak?

“I will have done more good than any mage in history if the Worm Nil sleeps,” he says. “What is the regency compared to that?” His eyes shine and I want to believe him. The Worm will be stopped and I will be the regent. Thousands of lives will be saved and the entire Parliament under my control. The tyranny of my fellow mages could be finally undone. Yet it would cost Isabella her life.

“I want to speak to The Ever-dying King before he passes,” I say.

“You can see him, but he won’t speak to you,” he says. “He is in so much pain that his mind is broken.”

There is nothing to say and we sit in silence as we fly closer to the city. Draven and his twin sit on the other side of Emily’s interior. His twin doesn’t open its eyes. All three of us slide glances past one another.

Emily catches a gale and quickens her flight. We fly over the sprawling city of Firewater. The noon sunlight has killed the flames and fishermen on shore are pushing out their boats. The city buildings have not changed since we left. In ancient times, our nation was nothing but sand and heat and burning water until enough mages murdered their twins to change the weather and then the land. The buildings are still those of a desert city, bricks as white as vulture-picked bones and the rippling curves of red tiled-roofs as far as the eye can see.

We descend, scraping the top of the city’s walls. They are made from the black diamond bones of Worldstalkers and their impervious ramparts have repelled numerous hordes over the centuries.

“We will give you my decision tomorrow,” I say. Isabella opens her mouth to protest, but I raise my hand to stop her. “Isabella and I will talk alone and then I will decide.”

We land. The milling crowds in the street glance at us for a second and then return to what they were doing. There are no cries of horror at Emily’s appearance. Isabella says what I have been thinking. “They didn’t look at her. How many oathbound are there in the city now?”

“Parliament has conducted many trials lately.” He pauses. “They have been suppressing opposition before the Worm wakes. There will be chaos and they take no chances.”

Emily splits and we exit onto the road. I look at her, hoping to see some semblance of recognition in her eyes, but there is nothing. Because I’m not watching where I’m going, I stumble and look down. A soft curse escapes my lips. We are upon the Road of Tears. Once it was known as the King’s Road until the last time the Worm Nil traveled upon it.

The road is the widest in the city and bisects Firewater in half. What was rock is now fused glass six feet deep. We stand above a young man. His face is unburned, but rest of him is charcoal-black. His eyes are blue and his mouth is ajar, as if he was lost in thought. The dead soldier is both handsome and familiar. I look from the soldier’s face to Draven’s.

“This is your father isn’t it?” I say.

Draven and his twin squat onto the road. Draven touches the glass above his father’s face. “I never knew him. I was conceived before the Worm woke.” The sweat on his fingers leaves streaks on the glass as he withdraws his hand. “He was a peasant, but Parliament conscripted him. My mother was pregnant.”

He stands. “Walk the road and then tell me casting the spell isn’t the right thing to do. I will meet back here at dawn with a modified inducement spell.”

“What is your twin’s name?” Isabella says.

His face hardens and he strides inside Emily. The exit seals. For a moment I imagine there is suffering in her eyes, but I am fooling myself. They are as blank as the eyes of dead fish. Isabella calls out, but Emily elevates.

We both watch until she is a distant spot in the sky and then I have to rub my stinging eyes. Isabella watches longer, her eyes watering.

I press my fingers into my temples. I cannot think. The pain is too much. “We don’t know what his damn spell is going to do until we say it do we?” I say. “Parliament hasn’t lured us back to punish us. They want us to do their dirty work.”

Isabella snorts. “That’s ludicrous.” She leads the way off the glass road and down the side streets.

“Where are you going?” I say, but she does not respond. We crab-scuttle and she watches for potholes. She is steady-footed while my feet skitter on the glass. The life drained from Isabella by my last spell has already dissipated and now she is draining me faster than ever. My limbs move a fraction of a second behind my thoughts and Isabella is a little glossier of eye and hair.

People keep their heads down and scurry off the road as we approach. “They’re scared of us,” Isabella says. “Remember when we were mobbed for favors? Parliament was always scared of you. You made them look bad, the way you talked about what good your spells would bring when you finally cast them.”

“You miss being the centre of attention,” I say. My tone is harsher than I intended, but Isabella remains serene.

“Yes,” she says. “I miss thinking that when you finally caved in, I’d be famous.”

“Where are we going?”

We round a corner. She has brought us to the marketplace where the Traders of Sorrows ply their wares. The marketplace is empty except for the Traders. They sit in enormous steaming glass tubs filled to the brim with water, their girth filling the tubs from centre to rim. Their eyes are black slits and the rest of their bodies are salt-white. Nostrils are two upwards-curved slashes, mouths lipless holes. They have no fingernails on their stubby fingers, no hair on their heads, nor ears or wrinkles. Nobody knows how the Traders work their magic without twins or why they trade sorrows for no apparent benefit to themselves. The Traders have been here since before Firewater was founded. They might have been here before mankind.

The nearest one focuses its black eyes upon us. Isabella forces me to walk and stand in front of it.

“Swap your guilt,” she says. “Swap your bloody guilt, so you can do what needs to be done.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She slaps me hard across the face. “Wake up Mary,” she says. “You love being a martyr so much you’ve destroyed all my dreams.”

I rub my stinging cheek. “You hurt me.”

“You can’t put it off any longer,” she says.

“What if he’s a liar?”

Her eyes are flat. “I’ve never believed in your Gods or your heaven. When I die, there will be nothing. My death will mean nothing unless you do this, but your bloody pride means more than my dreams, doesn’t it?” Her tone softens. “Trade your guilt. Please.” And then she is crying, her face crumpled, Isabella who is always so serene and perfect. “Please.”

I choke out the words. “If I could die for you…”

Her face steels. “But you can’t.” She turns her head to the Trader. “How much sorrow is the King’s dying pain worth?”

The Trader almost looks surprised. “To take his pain is to take his life.”

“I propose trading his pain for my broken dreams,” she says and extends her hand to the Trader.

“Your proposal is acceptable,” it says and it moves to kiss her hand, sealing the bargain. I try to stop her, but she brushes my hand aside without difficulty. The Trader kisses her hand and then it shudders and its eyes roll back in its head.

Isabella gasps, but the King was an old man and she handles his dying pain with a grit of her teeth. Bells start to peal, signifying the death of the Ever-dying King and the Worm Nil’s coming. Within minutes crowds rumble through the marketplace. None stop for the Traders; they are fleeing the city.

“What have you done?”

Isabella closes her eyes. “You have no guilt now. I’ve forced your hand. We find Draven and then you cast the spell.”

There will be a way out. There has to be. Isabella heads back to where Emily landed. My lungs burn but we cannot slow down. The crowds buffet us. The Worm Nil will kill them all. I know it in my bones. Thousands of ordinary people. They are not cursed with deciding whether to murder their twin, but neither do they have the power to save themselves. The gods have placed them as pawns, but I am a queen upon the board. I could save them all.

There are so many of them and I realize that Draven will never see us if he’s in the air. “The King’s tower,” I say. “I’ll cast a beacon spell.” Isabella sets her jaw and nods. The quickest way to the King’s Tower is to pass through the slums. We scuttle through the twisting and narrow streets as quickly as we can. Shouts and cries ring out. The stink of tears, fear and sweat is overwhelming.

We are stop to let the crowd pass. The front of our dress is covered with blood, though I do not remember coughing. It does not matter. After the beacon spell, Isabella might be dead. The crowd thins for a moment and then we are scuttling down less crowded streets until we have reached the Grand Square, where the statues of heroes (twin and un-twinned alike) ring the King’s Tower.

The tower is a pillar of flesh, topped by a vein-streaked heart as wide as a house. While the King lives, the heart beats. When he dies, the heart is still until the new King is born. Around the tower’s stem winds a wooden staircase. It leads to a platform encircling the heart.

“There’s no one on the platform,” Isabella says. “Where are the members of Parliament?”

“Too scared of the Worm,” I say. “It likes eating mages.”

“Draven could be telling the truth,” Isabella says. “You and he will be the only ones in position to touch the new King.”

Yes. Isabella will be dead. It will be Draven and I. And then I realize. “No,” I say. “Draven’s twin will still be there.” Isabella is blank-faced. “You’ll be dead,” I say. “I’ll be un-twinned.”

It takes Isabella a moment to understand. “You won’t be able to cast spells. And he will.”

“Maybe not. His twin must be close to dying.”

“But not dead yet.”

“It doesn’t take much power to kill someone, not if they can’t cast spells,” I say. “There are no witnesses.”

“He’s not a murderer,” she says. “Don’t ask me how I know, but he isn’t. I feel it. ”

I feel it too. He is not a murderer. He is a liar, but everyone lies. The elders of Parliament claim virtue, but they are tyrants. I remember when I was still a member. Our fellow mages proclaimed their plans for the final spell and their twins smiled and nodded. Great spells that would bring glory upon their dead twins. They lied. The spells were always for themselves. But I was the only one who fled. I was the only one who did something about the lies. And Isabella is right. I lie to myself and I always have.

I try to lead the way across the square, but my legs will not move. There is no burning in my chest and the scuttling spider in my lungs is gone. I try to tell Isabella I am no longer in pain. My head will not move. Why is everything so quiet? It is like I am underwater and it takes me a moment to realize Isabella is screaming something.

I focus and her words become a little clearer. She is screaming my name. “The tower,” I gasp. It takes a couple of attempts for her to hear me, though I shout back.

Isabella starts across the square and the band of flesh between our bodies stretches as my feet drag across the cobblestones. I feel nothing. A third of the way across the square, I blink, and when I open my eyes, we are halfway across. Isabella has stopped. She is slapping my face. The world is silent and the slaps are happening to someone else. I am behind a glass shield, an ant in an ant farm, watching the world burn. I want to sleep. If I sleep, I don’t have to murder her.

No. We must find Draven. No matter how brightly the beacon burns, he will not see us at ground level. If he isn’t flying inside Emily, it doesn’t matter what happens. We will die before he can find us.

I don’t know if Isabella has enough life for me to cast anything more than the beacon spell. It might kill her and I will be left alone and powerless on the tower with the Worm rampaging through the city. Gods, a spell now might kill her. But there is no choice. Most of the spells I learned at Parliament are too powerful. I need something small.

I blink and then we’re lying on the ground, my face numb against the cobblestones. Isabella grits her teeth and we stand. I feel no pain. Her muscles bulge as she sucks my life. Even so, there is no way she will be able to climb to the top or walk more than a few more steps before I die. I have to cast something.

My face is an inch from hers. I can’t think of what spell to cast. The damage to her face from the last spell has disappeared. Her beauty is like seeing the ocean or a mountain for the first time. It makes me feel insignificant. As children, we were identically plain. Now she is a Goddess and I am a hag.

Childhood. There was a rhyming spell all twins learn as children, a small, stupid spell. A spell to make vegetables taste like boiled sweets. The words were simple, but it was a song-spell, needing the rhythm and notes to be correct.

I almost remember the cadences, but it is like catching soap bubbles on the wind. As soon as a word of the lyrics is at the tip of my tongue, I lose it again.

I blink and when I open my eyes, everything is grey as the inside of a cloud. “Isabella!” I cry out, but I don’t know if my lips move. I have to cast the spell. I close my eyes and sing.

Isabella’s scream echoes around the square. I open my eyes. Everything is watery and blurred, but it is no longer grey. A half-animal moan of agony keens and then dies in Isabella’s throat. The spell has drained her, but it seems to have failed. Is that possible? And then I catch the taste of something on the air. It is the flavor of the sky just before a lightning storm, sharp and dangerous. “The Worm Nil,” I say. “I can taste it coming.” The Worm’s flavor changes. Its taste changes according to its intentions. In a way, I can read its mind and I know it hungers for magic.

The prickling on my tongue intensifies. “It’s coming for us,” I say. “Magic is a beacon. We need to climb.” Another spell might enable it to find us.

My eyes sting and I wipe them with the back of my arm. Isabella comes into focus. I stifle a gasp. The spell didn’t take much power, but Isabella is an old woman. Her skin as wrinkled as an unmade bed, her hair grey and lank.

“You have to carry me,” Isabella says, her voice weak. I gather her in my arms. She is kindling and twigs in my arm. Oh gods, she can’t support the beacon spell, let alone the inducement spell. I freeze. Maybe if we hide, the Worm will miss us.

Isabella digs her fingers into my forearm. “Go,” she hisses. I scuttle across the square, Isabella’s feet hitting the stones at irregular intervals.

The Worm’s ozone intensifies. It is hunting, not sure of where the magic is coming from, only knowing someone was stupid enough to cast when the King is dead.

I reach the stairs. Isabella’s eyes are open and fierce, but the rest of her looks so fragile that I worry she will blow into dust if the wind blows the wrong way.

I am strong, stronger than I’ve been for years. I’d forgotten what it is like to be able to breathe unencumbered. It is glorious to move without pain.

I climb the stairs, supporting Isabella’s weight. It is laborious, but part of me sings at the exertion.

We reach the top and Isabella slumps against the platform. People fill the streets, but few travel along the Road of Tears. Instead they flock to the Eastern gate or to the shore, fighting to board fishing boats. They are frightened the Worm will travel along the glass road again. But the Eastern Gate is too small to accommodate the vast crowds pouring in its direction. Thousands will be crushed to death.

And those on the boats will be no better. There is only an hour or so until Firewater Sea bursts into flame again. By the time they hijack the boats, the water will be on fire. The only safe passage is the Southern Gate via the Road of Tears but I can taste the Worm outside the gate.

“Is Emily in the sky?” Isabella says.

There are many oathbound flying through the sky. Most are travelling beyond the city walls, but there are still enough remaining above the city to make it impossible to know which one is Emily. None are close enough for Draven to see us.

A ghost of a smile traces Isabella’s lips. “Do you think I will get a statue for powering a beacon?”

“Maybe he’ll come close enough to see us,” I say. I can’t keep the desperation out of my voice.

She touches my face, the motion slow and pained. “You’re so beautiful. Is this what I looked like?”

No oathbound fly close. I scream Draven’s name, but my words are lost into the sky. The sun sinks and little fires gutter and die on the Sea’s surface. Soon the flames will roar waist-high. The hijacked boats will burn.

A great grinding sound sets my teeth on edge. The Southern Gate is trembling from the Worm battering the wall, searching for the source of magic. The walls are indestructible, but the gate is iron.

A single oathbound floats above the Road of Tears. It must be Draven, searching at our last location. Why doesn’t he think? Up here, no sound reaches up except for the whoosh of wind and the Worm’s battering against the wall. The crowd on the western gate is a boiling mass. There will be screams and the crack of bones as the weak are trampled underfoot. And on the lake, the launched boats are already catching fire. If we were close to the lake, we’d smell the roasting flesh.

“I love you,” I say and cast the beacon spell. Isabella screams and screams and screams. I force myself to keep staring at her as she ages and withers in front of my eyes. Her eyes sink deep into her sockets, two black stones dabbed in water, and then she closes her eyes. Her face wrinkles until deep cracks traverse her cheeks. She is utterly still and the only way I know she is alive is the faintest stir of breath against my cheeks. Every part of my body crackles with joy.

At the spell’s final word, light emanates from my fingers and I hold a tiny star in my hand. It is cold, clear and brilliant. And useless. Draven may find us, but Isabella doesn’t have enough power to cast much more. At least the beacon might lead Emily and Draven out of danger.

The Southern Gate glows cherry-red. The sky over the Gate darkens as Worm-brought storm clouds gather and then black fog leaks through the gate. The darkness thickens until the glowing gate vanishes.

I pray to the Gods Isabella doesn’t believe in, but Emily vanishes into the darkness. “Look up,” I scream, but of course he cannot hear me. In-between blinks, Isabella’s eyes film over with white cataracts. I look back into the blackness. “I dreamed of him,” she says.

I am staring so intently that it takes a second for her words to register. “What?”

“Every night, there has been a man in my dreams,” she says. “I didn’t know it was him until he stepped out of Emily. I dreamed he was the love of my life.”

A chill run through me. Mage dreams are prophetic, but the dream cannot be true. I have never heard of a twin having the same dream as a mage. “I have it too,” I say. “You dream of him and then you’re alone. But I’m still alive.”

She coughs wetly. “No,” she says. “I am alone, but with Draven. You’re dead.”

As the star’s light gutters and dies, Emily shoots out from the blackness. Behind her, the black fog dissipates as a howling wind washes it away.

The Worm has melted the Southern Gate and hot iron slag coats the road. It passes through where the gate used to exist. It should not fit. It coils above the city like a brewing storm, yet its head slides through the gates, its width endlessly narrowing as the body slides through. When I look at it directly, it is not there. I can only see it out of the corner of my eye, a featureless tube of night and nothing and air.

Emily rises until she is clear of the buildings and the street. But they travel towards the Burning Sea, not towards us, and the Worm follows them. I can taste its frustration. The beacon has attracted its attention, but Emily’s presence has confused matters. She is a creature of magic. The Worm turns its impossible head and chases her.

I start to recite the beacon spell again. Isabella barely has enough life left, but there is no time to ask for her permission. Her hair falls out in soft, grey clumps and when she screams, I see she has no teeth. When her scream dies, her eyes close and she is a genderless mummy. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, but she does not respond.

The star burns in my hand again. The Worm shifts from its pursuit of Emily and turns down the Road of Tears. Its howl increases in volume until it is the only sound in the world. Tin roofs flutter through the air and whole buildings roll down the street. Further down the road, people flee, but the wind pushes them off their feet. The road’s fused glass softens ahead of the Worm and the people burst into flame. The Worm rolls over them, leaving charred bodies pressed into the cooling glass.

It knows where we are now. The Worm is starting to taste me. As I become used to the gradients of its flavor, I understand it more. I have a taste of its thoughts, which is more than I can say about Isabella. The irony forces a sob from my guts.

The Worm howls down the road and there is a hint of terrible sadness in its flavor. The Worm is full of sorrow. And its flavor gives me a strange insight. It is driven to destroy magic and its drive is the source of its sorrow. I try to taste more, but the wind shifts too much.

Isabella whispers something. I look away from the unfolding horror and press my ears to her lips. It takes two or three attempts before I understand.

Let me die. Her voice is agonized. This is not her desire for glory. This is agony. Even in the moments before I cast the last spell, I didn’t want to die, but she is much closer to dying than I was then. I am not a murderer; I am a torturer.

Emily flies away from the Worm, travelling fast enough that she will be past the city walls within seconds. She is on fire, flames trailing as she streaks through the sky. But the Worm stops and extends its impossible neck to swallow them.

It looms over them, vaster than mountains yet too small to be seen. Its mouth opens, a storm cloud, a hurricane, the abyss at the end of the world. Leave them alone. Please God, miss them.

And miraculously, the Worm retreats. It returns to the Road of Tears and starts travelling towards the Tower. No, it wasn’t a miracle. The Worm understood my thoughts. As much as I can taste it, it can taste me. I open my mouth and poke out my tongue. The taste of sorrow is almost overwhelming. It is the taste of ashes, the taste of cakes at a wake, the taste of wine after long years of loneliness and regret. The Worm consumes magic users and magical things. All other destruction is incidental. It must do what it does and its sorrow at its own nature flavors the wind.

A cough rattles in Isabella’s chest like dice in a cup. She hangs limp and cold from my front. “Isabella,” I yell. “Draven is coming for us. He’s seen the star.” I hold the glittering star high until its temporary flame dies.

The Worm rolls down the road. Its burning wind pushes Emily ahead of it.

Isabella forces a whisper out. “Lead it out of the city,” she says. “Get inside Emily and use another spell to make it chase her away.”

“No.” If she dies inside Emily, no one will ever know what happened. I promised her glory. She is my sister and she deserves glory.

Emily traces a wobbly path to above the tower, her underside brushing the platform and then she lands. Her body is terribly burned, but her face shows no more animation than before.

She splits and Draven steps out. My heart leaps despite the circumstances. He clenches a scroll in his hands.

“I thought we had more time,” he says. He looks at Emily and touches the burning flesh on her hindquarters. Tears fill his eyes and he will not look at us as he holds the scroll in an outstretched hand.

Most of the scroll is covered in the runes in the language of spells, the Tongue. But some of it is common script.

Mary, it says. I have drained Susan too much to cast this. I know you won’t have drained Isabella. She is strong enough to bear the spell. We can rule Parliament together.

Beneath is the spell. It is Emily’s work. If Isabella was strong and the King still alive, the spell would not kill her, but she will die for certain if I do cast it.

Draven bows his head. His twin does the same. And in the gesture, there is something familiar. “Emily?” I say, looking closely at Draven’s twin. I had assumed his twin was male, but the withered creature is female.

Draven shakes his head. “No, Susan.” I touch his twin on its jaw. Emily’s dead twin?

“I don’t understand.”

The Worm curls around the tower’s base. Draven grips the platform, his knuckles whitening. “Emily made me oathbound. Her carriage drove past and splattered me with mud. I called her a whore.”

He opens his eyes, staring down at the Worm as it curls up the stairs. It takes its time now, knowing its prey is trapped. “She made me oathbound to punish me and then when I was her slave, she fell in love with me.” He pauses to choke back a sob. “I told her I loved her too, but I lied,” he says. “When it came time to cast the final spell, she could not do it. I told her to ask the Traders to swap my suffering for the pain of her twin. All I had thought to do was end my own slavery.”

Isabella opens her eyes and speaks. Her voice is clear and strong. She has more life in her than I imagined, maybe enough to cast the inducement spell. “Why doesn’t she speak?” I say.

“She could bear the guilt of hurting Susan, but she could not bear being oathbound,” he says. “It broke her mind. She saved Susan’s life at the expense of her own. Susan is my sorrow now.”

The Worm is at the top of the stairs. It is too large to fit, but it does. I can taste its despair, its need to destroy magic and its self-hatred for doing so.

“Cast the spell,” Isabella says, trying to scream her words. “Kill me. Kill me and save yourself.”

The Worm rears above us and it fills the sky. The scroll is unfurled in my hand. But I am no murderer. I am a liar and a hypocrite, but that is all. I throw the scroll towards the Worm. It catches fire before it hits.

I recite my schoolyard spell, the one that changes tastes. Isabella screams, but she lives. The Worm’s flavor intensifies and overwhelms me. And then the Worm and I are linked. We are twins. I taste it and it tastes me. It knows what I think and feel and say through tasting me and I understand it.

“You consume mages to make the new King”, I tell it, no words passing my lips. “If the New King is not born, the world will die. More than spells, he sustains life.” I taste it waiting, wary of what I have to say. “But you take no pleasure in murder. Your sorrows are heavy.” The taste of sadness and relief floods my mouth. It has spent eternity nursing its guilt, never sharing it. “Go to the Traders of Sorrows,” I tell it. “I will take on your grief and you will take on mine. Leave them all alive and I will be the Worm Nil.”

And it asks, “What grief will you have when your sister is still alive?”

“I love him. He is my true love. He is also Isabella’s true love. My grief is that I give her to him. I give them each other and that is my sorrow.”

The Worm Nil swallows me.

#

Isabella is un-twinned. I restore her to full health. I am the Worm Nil and the Worm Nil is me. We are one being, carrying the guilt of the other, and we are almost Gods.

Emily left Susan so drained that only a shell remains. There is nothing left to save, so I let her die and leave Draven un-twinned. I cannot restore Emily’s mind. There are some things beyond my powers. One day she may regain her sanity and then Draven’s guilt will be heavier.

I uncoil from the Tower. Parliament’s mages have fled the city in their oathbound. Some are criminals and they should die. I am not a murderer, but I will be. I leave my sister behind, knowing I will never see her again and that is my sorrow, but I am the Worm Nil and I will bear my sorrows for eternity.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on September 22, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 23, Issue 23 Stories, Stories

Spirit of the Forest Cold

I

Rolf had been threatened with a beating for giving a loaf of bread to the condemned woman. They had brought her in a cage and put her in the city square that morning. Frail, thin, dressed in a short smock, she sat in the cage and endured the torments of the children in the settlement. They threw stones and poked at her with sticks. Someone mentioned she had not been given food during the week’s imprisonment prior to her execution. After breakfast, the children (boys mostly) brought bread and held it out in front of her. She reached to try to grab it with her thin arms and skinny hands, but the boys adroitly pulled it away, laughed, and ate it front of her, smacking their lips and chewing with their mouths open. She wailed in despair and beat her fists on the wooden floor of her cage.

Something about how they were treating her angered Rolf. He never thought of himself as particularly kind, but he remembered when his mother died. He was six. She had born a child but died of the fever women often get after childbearing. He remembered her anguish. She was in pain, but the greater agony was that she would leave her family and her children—and her newborn daughter, Gretchen. He had understood as much even at six years old. As he stood in the cold mud of early spring, his heart ached for the wretched woman who would hang in only a couple of hours. The day his mother died he had vowed he would always care for Gretchen, his sister. The woman in the barred cage somehow reminded him of her.

When the boys he had grown up with tired of tormenting her and went away, calling him to join them, he came up to the cage.

She lay on the filthy wooden floor crying. She looked as if she might break if you even touched her. Her knees were bloody from her being on all fours (she did not have room to stand up in the cage). He smelled filth and urine and knew she had to do her functions there then lie in and smell her own filth. He came closer.

She saw him, made a noise that was half a gasp and half a scream, and pushed herself back to a corner of the cage. Perhaps, he thought, she was afraid he would poke her with a stick. He held out the remainder of his morning bread—half of a substantial loaf, fresh-baked, its fragrance wonderful amid the smells of discharge, mud, and her unwashed body. He held it up.

Her eyes, hollow and terrified, fell on the bread. He had never thought a person’s eyes could look like they wanted to eat, but hers did. She looked up at him, thinking he meant to torment her. He pushed the loaf between the bars.

“No,” he said, “I’m not tormenting you. This is yours. I want you to have it.”

She still looked doubtful. Suddenly she lurched forward and made to snatch the loaf away but then slowed and took it in one easy, even movement. Rolf backed up a step. She opened her mouth to devour the food, but, again, stopped. She leveled her washed-out, exhausted gaze at him.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice small. “You are a kind young man.”

He only nodded. She began to eat the bread, taking small bites and chewing them well. She had just finished it when a strong, rough hand camped on Rolf’s shoulder. He looked up. Towering over him was Vorthr.

“You little shit,” he growled. “You gave her food!” He let go of Rolf’s shoulder and drew back his arm to strike him. Rolf adroitly dodged the blow and sprinted away. Vorthr, who was burly and slow-footed, tried to catch him but gave up after a short sprint. “You’ll answer for this,” he said, shaking his fist. “I’ll tell Horst and he’ll beat you to within an inch of your life!”

Rolf ran home. His father and two uncles were there as well as Gretchen, his three half-brothers, and one half-sister—and his step-mother. He wondered why they were here and not out hunting or tending the garden and fields. Then he remembered the execution.

“Rolf, you’re dirty as a pig,” his step-mother said. “Go wash. The hanging is in an hour and I will not have you parading before the whole village looking like a mud puppy.” She gave him a cloth and a basin of warm water. “Shout when you’re finished and I’ll bring you clean clothes.”

He went out behind the house. Rolf liked his step-mother, Helg. She was nice—a little nicer, he had to admit, than his birth mother had been. He took the water and the cloth, which had a cake of soap wrapped in it, stripped down, and washed. When he had finished and dried himself, he called her. She brought him trousers, a shirt, and boots.

“Do I have to wear boots?” he grumbled.

“The whole of our clan will be there. Your feet could be stepped on a hundred times. Put them on.”

“Why are they going to kill the woman, Mother?” he asked.

“She did a vile deed.”

“What?”

“She joined her body to the body of a man who was not her husband. That is a sin. They fled. His family caught them. The man was killed, the woman will die today.”

“She seems”—he did not want to say “nice”—instead he said, “young.”

“She is hardly more than a child. It is a great pity, but she must suffer what the law requires.”

“They didn’t give her any food.”

She caught the look in his eyes, knelt, and took his hands.

“I think that was cruel, but the deed she did was vile. When she did it, she banished herself from the kinship of our tribe. I feel pity for her, but justice must be served. Now get your other boot on and come into the house. It’s almost time to go.”

Inside, his father and uncles had gotten out cudgels. He wondered what they were for. When a blast from the ram’s horn came, his sizeable family walked to the village square.

The whole community—all six villages that made up their extended clan—were there. He had never seen so many people in his life. They stood in a double line up and down the square that served on other days as a market. The men carried clubs. Two of his friends ran up to him and handled him pebbles.

“These are to throw at the whore when she walks the gauntlet,” one of them said. He rolled the small stones in his hand. “The chieftains say we can’t use stones bigger than this. Come on.”

He and the others slipped through the crowd and found a niche in front of a group of men. The crowd murmured ominously. After a moment, they brought out the cage and opened it.

The woman staggered out, took a few steps, and fell. She could hardly walk for being closed up in a small space for so long. The two men guarding her, Beorn and Alric, pulled her roughly to standing. She walked forward with a wobbly motion and then, seeing the crowd, stopped, her eyes wide with fear, mouth open, the fingers of her hands spread wide. Beorn poked her with a spear. She winced and began to walk unsteadily forward.

She went perhaps twenty feet before the crowd began to inflict harms on her. Boys and girls threw stones and mud. She covered her head. Some of the men hit her with sticks or cudgels. She screamed as she tried to dodge the blows. Twice she fell and was pulled to her feet. Once she staggered sideways and received vicious blows from some of the young men there to watch her die. She stumbled on until she came to the end where the noose waited her. Blood ran from her mouth and nose. Her thin arms were covered with welts and bruises. Her knees bled. Her feet were black with mud. Rolf wondered if she even knew what was happening. She stared out with blank eyes and then coughed up clots of blood that splattered on the front of her filthy smock. She could hardly stand. Alric tied her hands. Horst held her up as Alric tightened the noose. They both pulled on the rope and hoisted her. She died instantly. She did not even “dance,” Rolf remembered. He heard her neck snap like a dry twig.

Law required she hang till sunset. When the shadows were long, the people gathered outside of town. The magistrates had cut the rope but not removed it from around her neck. They left her hands tied and carried her body to the peat bog where murderers, thieves, and blasphemers were thrown. It was an unclean place, but to bury the body of a sinner would befoul the land, so she was not given a place amid the graves of the clan. Horst tied a heavy stone around her neck and four men tossed her, and the stone, into the dark brown water of the bog. That was the end of it.

At home that evening all of them were quiet. His mother and sisters knitted by the light of the hearth. His father and uncles drank but did not speak or sing; the uncles left when the moon appeared. He and his brothers played draughts but no one slapped the stones or cried out at a win. Finally his father rose and called the family together. They stood and recited a prayer to Odin and Freya and then went to their spots in the house to sleep. He and his step-brothers whispered about the execution until their father growled at them.

Rolf drifted to sleep. In his dreams, he saw her, but not as she had been at the execution. He saw her in a white dress and barefoot in the snow. She looked beautiful—no marks, wounds, or blood. She appeared cheerful and merry, like one of the maidens who served in Odin’s house and were solemn when he was near but smiled and made jests when their master was away. She put out her hands to him. He took them. They were cold.

“You are a very kind young man,” she said—the same thing she had said to him when he gave her the bread, but it was different. She was not abject and broken. Her eyes radiated joy and life. “Thank you.”

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Mathilda,” she replied.

As he held her hands, his body grew cold, yet it was unlike any he had known growing up in the northern lands with their long winters. It invigorated him and sharpened his senses. Finally she smiled and kissed him. Her lips, unlike her hand, were warm. He woke up to the stirrings of the house. His step-mother was cooking. His sisters were saying the benedictions to Freya. His father had just gone out to relieve himself. Rolf lay there, thinking of the lovely vision he had seen while sleeping.

II

As they sat down to supper the next night, Gundren said, “I think they should have given Mathilda a decent burial.”

Silence came. All eyes turned to the parents, who sat together on the west side of the war as custom dictated.”

“Eat your supper,” Helg said.

“No,” their father put in. “She is right. Throwing her in the peat bog was not a good thing to do. What she did was not a crime that called for defilement of her body. She was not a criminal—not a murderer or traitor. She was a foolish girl who let her buns get hot. That isn’t a crime that deserves defilement. They should have at least given her a proper resting place, even if it was away from the graves of our ancestors. She will return as a troll or a malicious spirit to punish us.”

“Her name was Mathilda?” Rolf asked.

“Yes,” Helg said evenly. “She was a very distant relative of my family; from another village. I only met her once in my life. The magistrates made an error, perhaps by throwing her in the bog, but we must not question their decision. If it was wrong, they will suffer for it.”

His father grunted. That settled the matter. The conversation went elsewhere. Rolf hardly tasted his food. It had not been a dream. It had been a visitation by her spirit. She had come to him through the corridors of sleep. How else could he have known her name? Some said dreams were only memories left from the day before, but he had no memory of ever hearing her name. She had not told it to him and no one else had mentioned it. He wondered what the visitation might mean.

He did not see her in his dreams again. Spring turned to summer. The gods blessed them. Their fields and gardens produced abundantly, as did their pigs and barnyard fowl. They hunted and killed deer, dried the meat and stored it, dried fruit, put away vegetables. Rolf’s father trained him in the art of war and complimented him on his progress. In the fall there was an abundant grain harvest, and feasting and rejoicing for the entire clan. As it turned out, they would sorely need the abundance they had stored away.

The snows came early that year and did not abate. By the yuletide season it had accumulated so it was half as tall as their house. By solstice it was even with the roof. The elders said they had never seen snow so deep. The weather was cold. Wolves prowled the forest in packs and killed the deer. Families ran out of food. The other families in the village shared with them. And as the tribesmen and their families huddled in their dwellings, news came that the Franks planned to launch a new campaign to conquer territory and convert the Saxon peoples to the Christian faith. Rolf and his father put on furs and practiced swordsmanship outside in the cold.

And people said they had seen the woman.

Several different people had been frightened by her and had seen her in different forms. Two women had encountered her near the peat bog. The waters of the bog had turned her flesh a murky brown, though her hair was still bright gold. She wore the smock she had worn to her hanging. Though stained with the tannic hue of the bog, they could see on its front the blood she had vomited. She had not menaced them, howled or threatened. She only walked toward the women, her smile ghostly, her eyes glowing with evil light. Others had seen different manifestations. Two men—hard-bitten warriors and family men not given to fantasy—saw her walking barefoot and bareheaded through the deep snow. She wore only the undergarment in which she died. Smiling, singing an ancient hymn, oblivious to the cold, she passed within a few feet of where they stood but did not seem to notice them at all.

The Village Council met. They considered searching the bog for the woman’s corpse so she could be given a proper burial. To do so, though, would disturb the spirits of the sinners who had been dumped there. The woman’s ghost had not seemed hostile. So far, it had brought no harm to the village. They decided to wait.

Two weeks after their decision, Rolf saw her.

He had been splitting wood. The snows were still deep even in mid-March. Food supplies had shrunk to dangerous levels. After finishing his chore, he spied a deer, quickly put down the ax, took up the bow he had brought to use against wolves if any appeared, and began to stalk the creature.

It was a grey deer, a doe, large and, he thought, well-fed. It did not run but sauntered through the forest at a slow enough pace that he could keep up with it. Rolf followed, bow tucked under his arm so he could keep his hands in his mittens until time to take his shot. The deer rambled for a mile or so and then stopped to graze by what looked like a hot spring. Through the cloud of steam rising from its surface, he saw green grass around the edges. The deer lowered her head and began to munch. He stared a moment, thinking he should take off his mittens, nock an arrow, and kill the animal, but, absurdly, he thought this would be wrong. It looked peaceful and innocent. He heard snow crunch and turned. Three feet away stood Mathilda.

He gaped. She smiled brightly. She looked different from the only time he had seen her (aside from in the dream). Her face, not emaciated, radiated humor and intelligence. Her eyes, bright blue, communicated wisdom—not the stern wisdom he knew so well from his encounters with the old and the venerable, but wisdom that was humorous and self-effacing. She had gained weight, though her body was marvelously slender and trim. Her golden hair fell in abundance over her shoulders and down her back. She did not have on the smock others had seen her in. She wore a long white dress embroidered with gold at the hem, the neck and the sleeves. She was barefoot and wore no gloves, no cloak, and no boots. Rolf did not know whether to flee or kneel and worship her. She did not look like a spirit or specter. Her body was solid. She blinked. He could see the shape of her breasts rise and fall as she breathed.

“Greetings, Rolf,” she said.

He fought to speak. “Greetings, Mathilda. I am honored”—

“You are astonished,” she interrupted merrily. “Come in. You’ll catch your death out here. Since I’ve already caught mine, I don’t have to worry about such things, but you do. And thank you for not killing my pet deer. Come.”
She turned. He followed her. In a moment they came upon something he had not noticed, though now it was impossible to miss. A stone house with a slate roof, large, built of stacked grey rock stood maybe twenty yards away. The door was open, the windows not shuttered, but once inside he felt warmth and saw light. A table sat in the middle of the room. Two mugs sat there and a loaf of bread. She motioned for him to sit and then gestured to the food.

“Eat and drink. I know you’re hungry. And the food is not enchanted. In fact, once you taste of it, I have extended hospitality to you and am under obligation to care for you always.”

“Are you a ghost?”

“Do I look like a ghost?”

“No—though, I’ll admit I’ve never seen one before.”

She laughed. “I’ve been reborn.”

“But you died. I saw it.”

“The faerie folk revived my soul. They can do that for those who have died unjustly.”

“Did you die unjustly? I mean, I don’t know.” He was afraid he had made her angry but she showed no signs of anger.

“Yes. I’ll admit I did sleep with Hengist. But I was only one in a procession of women he had. And my father sold me to him, so I had no choice in the matter. It was his sister who revealed our liaison and caused both of us to perish.”

“Why did she reveal you and bring about your death and her brother’s death?”

“You don’t need to know that—at least not yet. Eat. You look famished.”

He had been skipping breakfast so there would be more bread in the larder. He took a slice from the loaf she had provided, which was warm and full of nuts and cherries. The wine, sweet, spiced, tasted as if it derived from the vineyards of paradise.

“Will you tell me more?” he asked. “More about you?”

“I told you: the elven folk brought me back to life.”

“People have seen your ghost.”

“She has an existence, yes. Some of my spirit lies there in the burning fluids of the bog. You can expect her to emerge from time to time. She is angry and vindictive.”

“You aren’t?”

“No,” she said thoughtfully. She interlocked her fingers on the table and looked thoughtful. “I guess I’m not angry. After all, I came out better off than I was in my mortal life. I’m not angry with your people, though they were cruel to me. They thought they were doing the right thing and I will at least grant that they were obeying the laws. But there was no reason to starve me for ten days and make me lie in a cage in my own filth and urine and be tormented day and night by taunting children and villagers. Is it not enough that a person condemned will suffer loss of life? That in itself is a fitting torment without all the other cruel devices to which I was subjected.”

Rolf looked around him. “Is this your house?”

“I live here and it is also a temple. I am the Spirit of the Forest Cold.”

He blinked in amazement. “You are a goddess?”

“Goddesses sometime go on to rule of other realms and other demesnes. So it was with the goddess of this site. She has relinquished the governance of it to me. I assume her title now. It is I who control the snow for this forest—when it falls and ceases to fall, how dense and cold it is, how deep and thick it will cover the land.”

“Have you sent this deep snow to punish us for what we did to you?”

“I suppose so. When I came to this duty I was angry over the torment and cruelty the villagers inflicted on me. But I see now that it is also cruel and pointless to cause people not directly responsible to suffer for the sins of those who are directly responsible. That is what I want to do now. I want to punish the woman who is directly responsible for my torment. Will you help me, Rolf?”

“Of course,” he said, fear rising in his chest. “I’ll help you as much as I am able.”

“It may be a painful journey.”

“Whatever pain I might feel, it will not be half of what you’ve known.”

She smiled kindly. They finished their wine. She saw him to the door. “I will send three deer to your door. It’s admirable that your family is willing to share what they have with those who were not wise enough to store the abundance that came in the warm months. I’ll send a wind to melt the snow. I feel like an immature child who is tired of throwing a tantrum. My vindictiveness against your people will end. I will focus on the one truly responsible for my torment.”

“Who, Mathilda?”

“His sister—Bertina. She sold herself to the Franks and is in a Christian haven for virgins. She’s taken their vows.”

The Franks had been hammering the Saxons for years, taking their territory and forcibly converting theme to the Christian religion. They had never penetrated the dense forest land where Rolf lived. It protected his tribe so they were free from Frankish control. But some of their own people are now allies of the Franks and some had converted to their faith by their own free will.

“It would be hard to get her out of such a place.”

“Time will weave her fate upon its loom. You will have a part of it. Wait and see.”

Silence came. Both of them stood awkwardly on the threshold of her dwelling.

“I’ll see you again?”

“Of course you will. How could I not love you and desire to see you after the kindness you showed to me?” She put her arms around him and kissed him. Her lips were warm and he felt the warmth of her breath, the warm wet of her mouth, the heat of her tongue as she briefly touched the tip of it to his. And, amazingly, he felt cold fill him—sharp, hard cold that enhanced what he felt for her and that drew his senses of a point. It suffused his body and then faded as his own warmth returned. “Remember, cold is not an evil thing,” she said.

They lingered, sharing several more kisses. He finally took his leave and walked out the door. When he turned to say good-bye again, the stone house had disappeared. In its place stood massive snow-covered trees. He saw the deer still feeding at the hot spring. Rolf approached it cautiously. It eyed him and jerked as if to run away but stood its ground. He reached out, moving his arm slowly, and scratched its face. Like a hound, it closed its eyes and moved its face around to enjoy the scratching. He smiled, turned, and set out toward his house.

When he came near his family’s dwelling, he spotted the three deer and brought them down with three shots. Not wanting to leave them for fear of predators, he yodeled. After a moment, a response came. His father and one of his step-brothers appeared. They rejoiced and marveled at what he had done.

“I’ve never known anyone who could bring down three deer on one spot.” He slapped his son on the back. Rolf only grinned. When they came back to the house, he saw his sisters kneeling by the wood pile. One held a wooden cup of what might be ale above her head. His mother watched solemnly. He came up to her.

“What is this?”

“They are pouring out a drink offering to Freya. The weather has turned. A warm wind blows. We will be able to plant on time. Breathe in and feel the fingers of spring knead the air, Rolf.”

He took a deep breath and did feel it. Warmth tinged the air—warmth he had not felt when he set out this morning. Mathilda had been true to her word. He watched his half-sisters. Drink offerings had to be poured out by virgins, so his step-mother could not participate.

III

They butchered the deer, stored their hides for tanning later on, and fed the entrails to their dogs. Rolf was thankful they had not had to eat any of the dogs, though they had lost one to a neighbor who was later caught. In the justice system of the village the offended party pronounced the damages. His father said the neighbor must replace the dog when he was able. Times were hard and forbearance in order. His father made certain the family of the offender got an ample supply of deer meat.

“He’s an honest man,” he told Rolf. “He would never have stolen if necessity had not compelled him.”

The warm winds blew. Snow melted. By the end of March it was gone. The steady breezes had also dried the soil so it was not saturated with melt. They could plant early crops. Mathilda had once more showed her truthfulness and good will. He wondered when he would see her again.

It would not be for another two years.

During that time, the village prospered. Crops were abundant. Many children were born and most were healthy. All was not good, however. The Franks had defeated the southern tribes, invading and setting their eyes on the lands further north. The priests and holy women established houses of worship and tried to convert the tribes and clans at the edge of their realm. War was inevitable. Though the Saxons were fierce fighters, the Franks were a formidable foe and had weapons and tactics the Saxons found it difficult to overcome.

Still, all of that seemed far away. As he entered his seventeenth year, he began to notice women more and more. He had noticed them before, but now he desired them and kept alert to those who seemed friendly. The Saxons valued chastity, but there were always young women who were willing to break the rules and young men more than eager to assist them in doing so. It happened for Rolf at the house of a girl his age named Steora. She invited him in and he lost his virginity to her. After that she became his regular lover.

“Don’t let Father find out,” she warned. “He’ll cut your balls off. I hate to think what he would do to me. He wants to pledge me as a temple maiden at the shrine of Odin in Geestendorf. I’ll be damned to hell if I’m going to do that. It’s a city on an island and there are hardly any trees. I don’t think I can live there, Rolf. I’d go crazy out of the forest.”

“If you tell him you can’t be a temple maiden, will he beat you?”

“He might kill me. If he does, fine. At least I’ve had it a few times, which is more than what I would have got if I were pledged to some temple on a stinking, dirty island in the North Sea.”

He and Steora were lovers through the spring, summer, and fall. Her father never confronted the issue of her virginity or lack of it because that summer the soldiers of Charlemagne made a foray into the forest. They captured Steora and carried her away in the raid. By that time Rolf had established relationships with three other women.

The other villagers recognized him as a leader. He was conscripted to fight in a campaign against the Franks in the southern marches. Though the youngest member of his unit, he fought with distinction, killing the champion of the Frankish contingent, a thing that disheartened them and caused them to withdraw. Rather than celebrating with the others, he and his squad pursued the retreating enemy troops and overran their camp by night. Though superior in numbers, the Frankish soldiers fled, thinking a larger force had attacked them. They abandoned their baggage and Rolf’s squad captured one of their commanders, whom the community ransomed for a sizeable sum of money. He also was able to find out where Steora was being held.

When the snows began, he and his village, and the Franks, settled down for the winter. Armies seldom fought in cold weather. Harvest had been good again, the villages were well-supplied, and Rolf knew the snows would come at the usual time this year. When they did, he saw Mathilda once again.

She came to him one night as he was slopping the hogs. He had poured the table scraps, grain, and milk into the pen. The hogs, who were and fat, and who would mostly be slaughtered in a week or two, grunted happily as they ate. Snow had started to fall softly. He heard a noise and saw Mathilda behind him. He put down the slop bucket.

“I remember doing that in my mortal days. When my brothers were gone I had to slop the hogs. I hated it because the bucket was always so heavy.”

He gaped at her. Her beauty, and its contrast to the wasted, half-starved girl he had seen when she lived her mortal life, still amazed him. And, now that he was older, and experienced from sharing the bed with Steora and his other lovers, he saw her as an object of desire.

She smiled at him. “Cat got your tongue?”

“I don’t know what to say to a goddess.”

“Come with me.”

“I have chores to finish.”

“Come. Someone else will do your chores and no one will know you are gone. I promise you. Come with me now. Come on.”

She reached out his hand. Once more, he felt the peculiar cold she imparted.

“Where will you take me?”

“I want you to come to my house again.”

He nodded. She turned and walked into the woods, her embroidered dress white with highlights of red and gold woven into it. The snow fell more heavily. He noticed she was barefoot and wore no cloak. He followed. Soon he saw the hot spring and her house. They went inside. She turned to face him.

All through the walk he had felt his passion for her increase. He had felt it so strongly the night he dreamed of her. He was experienced now. He had slept with Steora, Ingrid, Edina, and Steffi. This and battle had sent him across the line into young manhood. Somehow he realized her summons had something to do with this. She turned to face him.

“You know why I’ve brought you here.”

He nodded.

“You know the passion of the goddesses Freya and of Aine and Clíodhna. There are goddesses of chastity; my own name means battle maiden, woman and strength and power. But there are goddesses of love and of childbirth and lust. My lust for you has grown since you showed me a simple kindness, Rolf. Now you’ve crossed the line from a boy to a man.”

She came forward and put her arms around his neck. For the second time he felt her kiss. Her lips, warm, moved against his. He knew the strangeness once more: cold, more stark and absolute than he had ever known in the winters of his life, filled him. Yet his strength increased as the cold filled him. He suddenly felt more powerful than Mathilda, goddess or no goddess. He picked her up and carried her into a back chamber of her house that he somehow knew was her bedchamber.

A low bed filled the center of it. Colorfully woven quilts and deer and bearskins covered it. He lay her down, kissing her all the while. He pulled her white dress up around her waist. She sat up so he could pull it over her head. He saw now her breasts, lovely and round, with dark nipples, the reddish hair under her arms, between her legs, and on her legs. Strong but gentle, her body shone in the dim lamplight. He wondered if they needed cream, like Ingrid and Steffi used, but when he felt her she was wet with her own fluid. She laid back down, one leg bent up, and her hands extended above her head. He lowered himself, kissed her breasts, stoked the hair beneath her arms, and ran his hands down her sides, over her stomach and beneath her to the soft flesh of her buttocks. She gasped in delight. He took her in his arms.

As he began to move, she gently embraced him, putting her arms around him and wrapping her legs over his. They moved in a rhythmic dance. Delightful confusion came over him. He felt warm and cold and simultaneously in a cloud of fog and in the stark light of a winter morning when the sky is frosty and the sun comes up clear and pure to light the world. He felt the power of wolves and bears in his body and the swift beauty of deer and fox in her. He felt as if he were tumbling through space but, at the same time, felt rooted to the earth like an oak is rooted or like a gigantic rock that thrusts upward through the soil, the bulk of it deep in soil. She seemed earth, sun, and frost. He felt her body buckle and heard her cry out. He followed shortly after. Silence came—so quiet he would testify that he could hear the snow falling, flake by flake, and piling up amid the trees of the vast forest of which she was now the genius and deity.

She opened her eyes and puffed out a breath of air.

“I’m not used to being a goddess,” she smiled. She looked at his questioning eyes, her smile broadening. “I’m not use to the . . . strength with which love comes to me. It comes with such power, with the power of nature and of the forest roots, the power of spring and of the winter wind.” She stroked his face. “You are my lover. You’re the first for me since I was granted to be a goddess. Before, I had many men. I will admit that. I started pretty young.”
“How old were you when they killed you?”

“Twenty three.”

He looked surprised. “I thought you were younger.”

“I always looked younger. My lovers liked that. Hengist liked it. And when you saw me I hadn’t had anything to eat and I’d lost weight. I looked like a waif.”

He laid his head against her breasts. He was in the arms of a goddess. When mortals fell in love with goddesses, the result was usually not good. But she had been mortal once. He let it drift out of her mind.

“I brought you here,” she said, “to share my love with you. Now you must go on a quest. You must rescue Steora. She has escaped. The Franks are pursuing her. If they find her, she will die a cruel death.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know, but your soul will know. You simply need to go. I’ll bring a horse to you. Trust your instincts. They will guide you.”

“Can’t you come with me?”

“I must stay here. I need to direct the snow to cover your tracks when you find her. You will go in my protection.”

He did not want to leave her. She sensed this and touched him gently. “You need to go. She is in danger.”

She washed him. He dressed and stepped outside. When he turned, the house was gone.

He stood in the falling snow. Out of the woods a white horse ambled toward him. It had a bridle and saddles and saddlebags. It came up, sniffed him, and whinnied. He patted its nose. A gentle-looking beast, he thought, a stallion, but it seemed more peaceful than most stallions he had ridden. Rolf looked at the scrim of trees and the snow coming down in the spaces between them. He should go home and tell his parents he was leaving, but Mathilda had said to follow his instinct, and instinct told him he needed to leave now. He mounted the horse. It reared just slightly and snorted. He patted its neck. “Easy,” he whispered in its ear. “We’ve got a long ride ahead of us. I’m Rolf. I don’t know your name, but let’s call you Aarn. Probably that is your name and Mathilda told me by her magic. I don’t know how we’ll survive or how I’ll feed you, Aarn, but let’s go.”

He flicked the reigns. The horse took off of at a good pace, its feet sure on the snowy forest floor. A mile or so on, he met Vorthr and told him to let his family know he had gone a quest to the south and would return in a in a week or two.

They rode through the snow, taking the southern road. Aarn trotted along obediently. They stopped at a hot spring like the one near Mathilda’s place with grass growing around the edge. Aarn grazed. Rolf stretched and looked in the saddle bags. He found wine, bread, and dried pork. He ate and drank. In the bag on the other side of Aarn he found socks, pliable boots, a cloak, and small stone jar sealed with a thick layer of black wax. For Steora, he guessed. He replaced the items, mounted up again, and continued on. Snow coated the trees. It covered the ground in a thin layer. Ferns and shrubs poked through. He saw deer tracks and scats, rabbit trails, and, more ominously, formations of tracks that indicated wolves. He rode on. His hands began to ache from cold. The light diminished. As the darkness began to gather to such a degree he could hardly see the road he came upon a house. The family offered him hospitality, an ancient custom of his people.

The family was like his—three boys and three girls. The patriarch and his wife were younger than Rolf’s parents and seemed prosperous. He washed, warmed himself by the fire, and dined with them. The onset of winter always meant slaughtering animals that had little chance of surviving the cold weather. He ate roast pork in abundance. The ale they had begun fermenting at the beginning of the summer was rich and full by now. They sat with cups in front of the hearth. He told them he was going south to seek the release of a woman from the Franks.

They were troubled when he said this. He looked at the mantle above their hearth and saw Christian symbols there: the crossed pieces of wood and two clay statuettes he took to be icons of that faith. They had converted.

“She is being kept in a house of Christian holy women. I hope to negotiate her release so she can be released.”

“That is unlikely. They pressure our people to convert. We ourselves were baptized. There consequences of apostasy are dire.”

They all knew how dire apostasy could be. At Verdun, Charlemagne had executed 4500 Germans who had reverted to the worship of the old gods. He felt sympathy for the family. Fear would keep them in the Christian fold. He wondered if the entire area had been converted.

“Religion doesn’t mean much to me,” he said, “but I do not think the young woman I am seeking should be held against her will.”

“If you pay them enough they may let her go.”

Of course, she was an escapee. He had to be careful.

“How far is their territory from here?”

“Perhaps ten leagues. Many have fled further into the forest lands. You’ll have trouble finding people to stay with as you approach their marches. Most have gone to the northlands.”

He slept and departed in the morning. The snow had stopped. Aarn, rested and fed, bore Rolf through a deep, powdery covering. Silence filled the forest. Now and then snow slid from the tree branches. He saw more deer and two lynx.

Riding on, he passed abandoned homes—walls falling in, thatched roofs sagging, fences of what were animal stalls and rotted garden plots. He rode until he came to a structure that was more intact. The roof was made of boards, not thatch. He went inside. Looking around, he saw no animals had broken in. The walls and doors were all intact. A stack of dry wood lay beside the hearth. Rolf scooped the snow out of it and kindled a fire. He walked back and found some clean hay in the barn out back for Aarn, who munched it thankfully. When he went out back he noticed a spot on the snow.

It was yellow and melted. Someone had urinated here. The spot was directly under the two footprints in the snow, which meant it had been made by a woman who squatted rather than stood. He looked around. There were no tracks. Whoever it was had covered them. He followed the uneven mounds of snow until he found bloody footprints. He knew it had to be her.

Rolf followed the tracks into the wood. He had only gone about a hundred yards when he saw her.

Steora was moving at a slow pace, staggering. He rushed up behind her and shouted out her name. She turned suddenly, lost her balance, and fell.

He rushed over and scooped her up. Her lips were blue, her limbs thin, and her feet oozing blood. She wore a dress and had wrapped herself in a blanket.

“Steora,” he said, shaking her. “Can you hear me?” She moved her lips but no words came out of her mouth. “It’s Rolf. You’re safe with me. No, don’t go to sleep.” Holding her in his arms, he ran back to the house.

Inside, he sat her down by the fire. Looking at her feet, he shuddered. She wore thin shoes that had soaked through. He pulled them off. She screamed. Her feet were raw and bleeding, though it did not look like her flesh had frozen. He gave her wine to warm her. She still did not seem sensible enough to know who he was. She drank the wine. He had brought the saddlebags inside, took the cloak from it, and threw it over her, leaving her feet protruding. After cleaning them with melted snow, he poured wine over them. They were bad and would require days to heal. He wondered how far they were from Frankish territory and if she were being pursued.

Rolf went out to check on Aarn. He had settled in the barn. He took down more hay, got Aarn up, and scattered some for him to lie on. He settled into it and whinnied appreciatively. Rolf went back into the house. Looking down at Steora, he checked her feet again. He could see no red streaks indicating poison spreading through her blood. She stirred and smacked her lips. He knelt down to be close to her. Her face look grey, her lips blue. He kissed her softly, took off his outer garments, climbed under the cloak, put his arms around her and his body next to her.

She was cold. He snuggled against her. Then he remembered Mathilda’s touch. If he could not import his warmth into her body, he could draw her cold into his own. He relaxed, not certain how to recover the feeling he had known when he had kissed Matilda and lain in her embrace. Eventually, though, he felt the chill and sharpness. It drew the cold out of Steora, as a dry cloth will draw moisture when it comes near water. He felt it course into his body and combine with the cold he felt inside him. His hands and arms sensed warmth return to her body. In the flickering light of the fire, he saw color come to her face, the red of blood return to her lips and to her cheeks. He touched her breasts and felt the spreading warmth move downward to her stomach, her opening, and her thighs. When he was certain the cold had gone out of her body, he let it go out of his. He sat up, making certain it had not returned to her. It had not.

Then he remembered the ceramic jar in the saddle bag.

He dug it out and cut the wax seal with his knife. A fragrance of apple blossoms filled the room. He put his fingers into the jar and, as he had thought, it was ointment—healing balm. Mathilda had known the sort of shape Steora might be in; or had foreseen it through some prophetic power she possessed. He gently spread a layer of it on the raw flesh of her feet. She shuddered when his hands first touched her but then seemed to settle into a deeper sleep, as if the balm had soothed her. He wondered if it were a medicine people knew or some enchanted substance. It could be both. He climbed under the covers against and put his arms around her. She was warm now. He knew she would live.

As he lay there he remembered the first time he had made love to her—his first time, her third (or so she said). He was awkward and afraid, but she combined understanding and the passion she felt for him, and the time was sweet and magical. Steora was a strong girl and had stretched and contracted her body beneath his. The grip of her arms around his back was powerful. She had big breasts (Mathilda’s breasts were smaller and more delicate) and the body of a farm girl who had worked in the gardens and the fields all her life. She had a body for love, for work, for childbearing. It would have been a pity, Rolf mused, for her to have been consigned to virginity, either as a temple maiden dedicated to Odin or a Christian holy woman. He would return her to her father.

He slept. In the morning, he went outside to relieve himself. More snow had fallen. A good three inches covered the ground and it continued to fall steadily. Her tracks would be erased, he thought, and the snow would discourage anyone pursuing her. He went back inside. Steora was awake.

She looked up at him. “Am I dreaming, mad, or awake?”

He knelt beside her. “You’re awake. I was told you had escaped and came to find you. The Spirit of the Forest Cold has brought us together.”

“Blessed be her name,” she muttered piously—a reflection of how religious her family was.

“How are your feet?”

She wiggled them. “I can feel them. They hurt a little.” Rolf examined them. They had begun to heal. They were scabbed, and the scabs were thin and would break if she tried to walk just yet, but he could see no streaks. They would be whole in a few days if properly cared for. He stretched out beside her.

“How long ago did you escape?”

“Three days ago. I’ve been hiding and running through the snow all this time.” She paused and then added, “I killed a woman. I killed one of the women in the maiden house. If the Franks catch me, the gods alone know what they’ll do to me. I must get back home.”

“I’ll get you home. First, you have to heal—your feet. Lie here. It’s snowing. I think we’re safe here, at least for now. Let me get breakfast and then you can tell me about what happened to you.”

He got out bread and dried meat. Steora sat up and ate.

“How did you escape?” he asked.

“For all this time they tried to convert me to their faith. They deprived me of food and frightened me with stories of torment in the afterlife for all who do not bow to their gods. I would not consent to enter their faith. Finally they told me I would be burned alive because I persisted in my trust of the old gods. They set a day. I escaped two days before. I tore two planks out of the door to my chamber and managed to get out. The woman who had been the cruelest of all to me met me at the door. I knew she would alert the others, so I strangled her with a piece of rope I found hanging on the wall. I didn’t want to kill any of them, as they are pledged women and are holy, but it was her or me.”

He went out and checked on Aarn, who seemed to be in good spirits. He gave him more hay and, finding an old brush, groomed him and let him trot through the snow. He cleaned his stall and came back to the house to find Steora trying to walk.

“Damn it, no,” he said to her, rushing over and helping her sit down. “Your feet are healing, but they are still tender. Give yourself a couple of days more. We can wait here. We have food enough for a week there is hay in the barn for my horse. Be patient. You must be patient with a wound.”

“They may come here looking for me.”

“The snow will keep them away.”

“It will trap us here too.”

“I don’t think so.”

They had long hours to pass, and, as Rolf suspected she would, Steora began to come on to him. She had been isolated from men for months. He knew Mathilda would not be offended and made love to Steora. She moaned and writhed, moving her limbs in a slow rhythm, taking his love as a man who has not eaten days but is disciplined and self-controlled takes food: savoring it, extracting every bit of satisfaction he can from it. When they were finished, they lay next to each other. She took out a packet of dried green leaves.

“Above all else, I guarded these,” she said. I wrapped them in cloth and stuffed them into my opening—an irony, because they are the herbs that keep me from getting pregnant. I chewed the juice out of them last night. Just thinking about you got me so worked up I could hardly sleep.”

By the fourth day her feet had almost healed. He took Aarn for a ride and managed to shoot a small boar and bring it back to the house. They butchered it and feasted on the meat, smoking some of it to take on their ride back. Rolf found some withered apples hanging on the breaches of an abandoned orchard by one of the empty houses and picked them for Aarn. He rode south and came to a swath of the road that had been cleared out. He saw oxen tracks, the tracks of horses, scats, and a wide, compressed path of snow. The Saxons were clearing the road. Only they had the assets to do something like this. He turned Aarn about and headed back to the house. Steora was by the hearth, naked, washing herself with warm water.

“How are your feet?” he asked.

She turned. He saw the muscles in her back ripple beneath the cascade of dark blonde hair.

“My feet are fine, Rolf.” She saw the concern in his face. “Why?”

“We need to go.” Then a strange feeling overtook him. He knelt down. “You have to go. The Saxons are clearing the road. They’re coming here. We can’t risk you getting caught.” He got the socks and boots out of the pack. She got dressed, put on the socks and supple fur-lined boots, and threw the cloak on. He told her to mount the horse.

“What about you?” she asked. “You can’t stay here. They’ll kill you—or enslave you.”

“I feel I need to stay. Aarn is a good snow horse, and you know how to ride. You’ll find forest-dwellers who will show you hospitality. Some of them are converts to the Frankish religion, but they are our people and will care for you. Go now.”

“I won’t leave you here.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll head through the forest and find my way back. It would be too tricky for the horse to make his way through the snow with two people on his back. Go on, Steora. When you get back, tell your father he needs to get you out of Saxony. You said you had relatives in England.” She nodded. “You need to go there. Leave now.”

“I love you.”

He could only nod. Atop a strong horse, the wearing the boots and cloak, her hair shining in the winter light, she looked like a queen. After a moment, she lightly spurred Aarn. He trotted off. Rolf watched her until she disappeared into the distance.

Quiet settled. Rolf went inside and threw more wood on the fire. He did know where he planned to go, but he felt Mathilda had impressed on him to stay. He ate more food even though he was not hungry. He spent the day drying meat and trying to decide which way to strike out. If he could get to a friendly village, they would care for him. He could eventually get back home. Walking the road would be too dangerous. He would have to strike out through the trees. At this time a year, with the snow deep, the wolves and other predators hungry, and the enemies of his tribe possibly lurking about, trekking would be fraught with danger. It was his only choice and he felt that Mathilda had instructed him in this. He would leave at first light.

He expected Mathilda to appear to him in a dream, but she did not. He woke and looked into the embers of the fire, packed up his belongings and food, and set out, walking through the trees, following the same path he had seen Steora take five days ago.

The ancient forest towered above him. Wind or the settling of a bird on a branch shook snow down now and then. The drifts were not deep. The cover of trees absorbed some of snowfall, so walking was not difficult. He had a sword, dagger, and bow. The listened carefully for sounds that might indicate wolves, wild dogs, or boar. In cold weather even lynx would occasionally attack humans. Rolf walked steadily in the silence of the cold and the stark beauty of the massive trees, the rocks jutting out of the ground, and the swell and fall of the land beneath his feet.

He walked until he came to a hill devoid of trees. It looked vaguely familiar to him. He stopped and puzzled a moment. It was still relatively early in the morning. He found stone steps covered by the snow. He walked up three of them and stopped. He remembered.

The snow filtered down, though the sky looked to be clearing off and the light increasing. Looking about, he noted the land, the trees and the rock formations. He had been here. He had come here twice—once right after his mother died and once again five years ago when his step-brother, Eric, was ill and near death. It was a shrine. There had been priests and a prophetess. He stepped back and stood a little distance from the sacred stones. He saw no buildings now. The area around the stones was overgrown with brush. The shrine had been abandoned. The Franks had destroyed the building and killed or dispersed the clergy. They had not, though, destroyed the standing stones. As he puzzled over this, the clouds cleared and the light of the sun broke out.

The ground around him glittered. Rolf’s pulse quickened as he remembered. He had not been able to see the moon or the stars, but he knew it must be near, if not the very day of solstice. Now the sky had cleared. The cold blue of dawn rose over him. Mouth dry, he mounted the steps. The stones, five of them, formed a circle. They were granite. No one remembered the day they were place here. Some said the gods themselves had arranged them in this formation. Four stood taller than a man—probably eight feet tall. One was shortened, about three feet, and its top curved gently. Straight across from it a flat stone sat on the ground. The light in the sky increased.

He hurried up the steps that led to the top where the sacred circle stood. Kneeling on the lowest stone, he waited. The granite felt cold against his knees. A breeze stirred blowing wisps of snow from the trees around the shrine. A moment later, the sun appeared. He had been right. Today was solstice. He had come, a lone worshipper, to the abandoned shrine.

Rolf unbuckled his sword and laid his dagger and bow aside, wrapping both in his cloak. The sharp cold made his blood flow and focused his senses. After a few minutes, the sun, a bowl of white light, appeared above the stone that marked its ascent. He watched as it moved upward, its light glinting on the stones’ ice crystals and glimmering on the snow, driving the shadows back, warming Rolf’s face. It rose steadily until it stood above the curve of the stone, which cradled it in the half-circle. It hovered in the sacred space, conjunction of the world and the candle that lit it by day in winter and warmed it like a lover in summer. It hung there, perfectly framed. Too stunned to pray or speak, Rolf knelt—but only a short while. The sun moved to the side. The moment had passed. He stood, stepped off the altar stone, and walked down the steps.

He strapped on his sword and threw on his cloak, stuck his dagger into his left boot, and slung on his bow and quiver. He had worshipped. He had felt the power of the sacred moment that came once a year. The gods would bless him. The gods would speak to him.

After his mother died, his father had come as a pilgrim to the shrine. Rolf accompanied him. He was seeking guidance on whether he should marry Helg. They had made an offering of gold, seen the sacred moment (many other worshippers were there), and then gone to the house of the prophetess.

She was a tall woman with dark braided hair, sacred to the gods, never married and a virgin (just the same as Steora’s father had planned for her to be). She sat on the floor in prophetic trance. The priest stood by. The woman looked up at them—a stream of quiet glossolalia issued from her throat. The priest nodded and told them to step outside. He said the gods would bless the marriage—and, Rolf mused, they had. The same thing when Eric was ill; the prophetess, older and going grey by then, said he would live, and he did.

The sun rose higher in the sky Squirrels skittered in the trees. He stepped over to the area where the buildings had been, finding the ruins of the prophetess’ house. The charred brick told him the Franks had burned it. He recognized the suppliant’s door, where those seeking oracular answers came. Walking through it, he stood in the limits of the gutted structure. Snow began to fall again. Mathilda stood beside him.

“Why did not pull down the stones?” Rolf asked.

“Their men are afraid to. They burned the buildings but the left the stones in place.”

He looked at her. She smiled and extended her arms. He took her in an embrace and kissed her. He felt her cold fill him and felt the paradox that her cold made him feel warm.

“What do I do now?” he asked.

“In most prophetic lore there are no answers, only choices. You can continue west where you will find people who will return you to your home; you can walk back to the road where the Franks will capture you.”

“Will they kill me?”

“No. They will take you as a captive.”

“Will I find Bertina?”

“The prophecy is dark at this point. I can only say there is a good chance of it, but I can’t say for certain that you will find her.”

“I don’t suppose I came here and knew the sacred moment just so I could return home.”

“You did not come here for no reason. You freed Steora.”

He kissed her again. “Is it wrong to kiss you in a sacred space?”

“The space is no longer an active site of prophecy. And things change. They have to change. I must go now. Remember, the choice is yours and one path is not better than the other.” With that she was gone.

Rolf looked around for traces of her. The wind blew snow from the trees. No flakes fell. He saw no tracks. Walking down the hill from the shrine—carefully so as not to slip from the light layer of frost Mathilda had brought with her—he followed his faint tracks through the trees and out to the road. He stood there a moment, heard the dint of horse’s hooves, and saw four riders approaching—three soldiers and a man who dressed and wore his hair like a Christian priest. They slowed their horses and circled him. The priest hung back.

“Who are you, traveler?” one of them asked.

“I am Rolf, son of Fredyk, from the forests of the north.”

“This is Frankish territory. What are you doing here?”

He pointed back. “I just came from the shrine. This is the day of solstice and I witnessed the sacred moment of the sun’s rise on the shortest day of the year.”

Their eyes filled with rage. They leaped from their horses. Rolf drew his sword. They reached for theirs but could not extract them from their sheaths.

“You must be southerners,” he said. “The ice crystals here bind metal to metal and your swords stick in their hangars. You should always keep them under your cloak in winter.” As they frantically tried to get the swords free, Rolf slashed their cloaks where their hearts lay. “That was to show you I could have easily killed all three of you if I had wanted to. But today is a sacred day and a day of peace, not a day for conflict and violence.” Having said this, he sheathed his sword. The Franks gaped. The man on the horse spoke.

“Thank God you encountered a virtuous man,” he said to the soldiers. “Rolf, son of Fredyk, thank you. You will come with us as our guest. By the faith I represent, I swear no treachery will befall you.”

“I’m lost,” he lied. “Someone stole my horse. I will gladly accept an offer of hospitality.”

At that moment, snow filtered down, light at first but soon transforming to clumps. Rolf could see only a few feet beyond where he stood.”

“John,” the priest ordered, “ride ahead and fetch a horse. Hopefully, we can find our way back to the compound before the road snows over.” John bolted to his horse and rode off at a gallop. The priest dismounted and joined the others in walking to whatever was their destination.

They made their way through the storm. Clouds had been thin that morning and had cleared long enough for Rolf to see the sun at the sacred moment of solstice. Now, a thick, heavy mass of grey had rolled in. The clouds looked so close to earth he felt he might reach up and touch them.

“You worshipped at the shrine?” the priest asked.

“I witnessed the wonder of a sacred moment.” He paused and then added, “I’m surprised you did not pull down the sacred stones.”

“Our people still have regard for them. And sacred objects are to be venerated. They represent an awareness of the sacred. God has arranged the world as a witness to him—‘that men should seek after him and perchance find him.’” He seemed to be quoting. Rolf wondered if he was reciting their sacred book—a thing the Frankish holy men were fond of doing. “We opted to leave them standing.”

“A wise and compassionate decision,” Rolf said.

“I’m glad you think so. False religion can point the way to the truth. In the fortress to which we are going there is a small convent of women who have dedicated themselves to God and live as his pure, sacred devotees. One of your people is among them. Normally, they are hidden from the view of men, but I think Bertina might get permission from the Mother Superior to speak with you. She might persuade you to follow the Way of Life.”

His mind tingled when he heard the name. He remembered what Mathilda had told him. “I’ll be happy to meet her and hear her story.”

“You will need to keep quiet, though. Our people are angry. One of your women murdered one of our pledged virgins a few days back. She might have been the one who stole your horse. We know she is at large in this area.”

Rolf kept quiet. After a few minutes, John rode up leading a fine black stallion. Rolf mounted and the five of them rode at a good clip until they came to a cluster of wooden buildings surrounded by a stockade fence. The guards admitted them. They dismounted. Flanked by the three soldiers, Rolf followed the Priest, who had introduced himself as Father Ambrose, into the main building of the compound.

The structure, newly built, smelling of resin and fresh-cut wood, housed tables and chairs. A sacred image of the Franks’ crucified deity hung on the east wall. Three fireplaces warmed the room. A group of warriors eyed Rolf as he entered. Ambrose explained the conditions of Rolf’s capture. The warriors nodded, their eyes surly, their manner suspicious, but they brought him beer, flesh, and bread. He ate thankfully. The priest asked about his family.

“I have my father and my sister. My mother died when I was six. Father remarried to a woman, a widow, who had four children—a girl and three boys.”

“And your livelihood?”

“We farm and hunt, like everyone around us.”

“You fight well. Where did you learn?”

“Father taught me, along with other men in the village.”

Ambrose sipped his beer. “We spread the true faith. To the north we fight the worshippers of Odin. To the south we fight the followers of the false prophet Mohammed. Satan sends his legions against us, but we prevail through the power of God.”

Rolf did not reply. They ate in silence for a time. Noises came. He turned to see two women enter the room. One was a large Frankish woman; the other, small, thin, delicate, was unmistakably Saxon. As they approached him, he marveled that in a moment he would meet Bertina, the woman who had caused Mathilda’s cruel death. The men at the table rose. Rolf stood as well.

“Rolf, son of Fredyk, may I present to you Abbess Celia and Sister Caritas.”

He bowed. “I am honored.”

“Sister Caritas is from your tribe, I believe. She has converted to the true faith and submitted to baptism.”

Rolf drew upon all his self-control to maintain a benevolent demeanor. What had this thin-faced stringy-haired woman done that led to Mathilda’s cruel, abject death and her brother’s too?

“Welcome,” she said in the Saxon dialect.

“Thank you, sister Caritas,” Rolf replied in that tongue. “I am flattered that you have come from your place of sanctity so you may speak to me.”

“All of us are praying you will see the true light.”

His mind worked rapidly. Rolf knew that in battle instinct provided the surest guide. A warrior followed his instinct even if what it suggested seemed too dangerous or risky. Instinct alone saw through the outward conditions to the core of reality that could undo even a formidable enemy. Time to strike, he thought; time to charge through, piercing the superfluous line of her politeness and formality and engage this conflict’s substance.

“You were Bertina of Neiderwald before you entered the convent of the Christian faith and took a sacred name.”

She looked wary when he said this. “Yes.”

“I know your family. I knew Mathilda.” The look he gave her told her he knew everything: Mathilda’s betrayal, Bertina’s role in it, and the terrible consequences. A small tremor ran though Sister Caritas’s face.

“I feel deeply for Mathilda,” she said, “but holiness demanded her sin be found out.”

“We miss her greatly.”

“So do I,” she murmured. “But”—and here her expression changed to one of pious obfuscation—“the peace of Jesus Christ is my comfort. I hope, Rolf, you will rest in it as I have.”

It entered his mind to say that if the result of such a conversion were as horrid as Mathilda’s death, he would have none of it, but he only smiled. “I will listen to the story of your god. At this point I am not persuaded to leave the faith of our people.”

She looked down, which seemed to be a signal she had said all her intended to say. She and the other holy woman said good-bye to those around them and departed the room.

III

The next morning he rose with the others and attended their religious service. He had heard of the Christian belief system and did not believe it—did not believe in the significance of the things they called miraculous. Afterwards he talked with the priest, but his talk quickly bored him. You were born into a religion, Rolf thought. Why would anyone want to change their heritage? The Christians talked of dire consequence in the afterlife if one followed the wrong gods. But if the gods were so deceptive and treacherous as to show a false path to some and a true path for others, and then hold them responsible for choosing the wrong path, what did it matter anyway? Who could fight against divine deception?

He breakfasted and went out to watch the Franks train for war. Undoubtedly they planed an incursion into Saxon territory. He wondered what they would do with him. Ambrose had said no harm would come to him, and he seemed a man of his word, but Rolf sensed the hostility of the Franks. All it would take was one outburst from an angry warrior who had lost a kinsman in the fighting. Unarmed and alone, he was vulnerable. He decided that staying near Father Ambrose would be the best course of action.

“I must lead the nuns in worship this morning,” he said. “I am the only man permitted within their lodgings—and then only to say the religious service.”

“Can I wait outside? I am wary of your people. I think it best if I stay near to you.”

He pondered. “I suppose that would be permissible. You must wait outside, though, and not come into the cloister house—unless your life is in danger.”

Rolf nodded. The two of them traversed the compound to a wooden building with a cross on top. Rolf waited on the east side, out of the wind. Snow began to fall. Ambrose went inside to lead the worship service. Rolf stood under the eaves. He watched the heavy flakes descend and add another lay to what had thickly accumulated on the ground. He heard crunching and turned, thinking it might be one of the Saxons come to kill him. He saw Bertina.

She wore a long black cloak and had tucked her hands into the folds of her cloak for warmth. Her white face shone in the dark of her hood. She looked thin and frail.

“Have you come here to murder me?” she asked.

“No. I am not seeking vengeance. I only want to know why you betrayed Mathilda the way you did.”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“My peace of mind, I suppose.”

“Is she dead?”

Rolf hesitated and then decided telling the truth would be best. “She was hanged and her body thrown in the bog near our village. But she has undergone an apotheosis. She has become a goddess. She has become the Spirit of the Forest Cold.”

A tremor ran through Bertina’s white, thin face. She looked down and then up. “I thought so. She comes to me in my dreams.”

“What does she say to you?”

“Nothing. She does not speak a word. But the sight of her torments me. I hardly go through a week without her haunting my sleep.”

“Why did you betray her?”

“Mathilda,” she began, “was a beautiful woman. Many men desired her, and she readily returned their favors. She had more than one lover before she met Hengist. One of them was a man I desired. She took him from me. They parted, but after that he would have nothing to do with me. I had slept with him; given him my maidenhead. Still, he abandoned me.”

“Do your superiors here know you have been intimate with a man?”
“No. I would not be permitted to dwell here if they did.”

“And you betrayed Mathilda, knowing it would mean her death?”

“I didn’t think it would mean her death. I thought the leaders of the village would make her marry my brother. I thought that would make the man I loved return to me. It cost my brother his life . . . and Mathilda as well.”

“Is that why you came here?”

“Yes. Their faith offers forgiveness. But Mathilda torments my soul. Sometimes she comes as I knew her. Sometimes she comes as a hideous troll with hollow eyes and skin turned black and green. Sometimes I see her filthy and bloody and half-starved. Her spirit comes to me in many forms.”

“She is not merely a spirit—though I think part of her spirit walks as the thing you see and call a troll. She is a goddess. A goddess can walk into your soul as you walk into his building. You will never be rid of her.”

“Is there any hope for me?”

“You must seek her out for reconciliation.”

“How could I ever be reconciled with her?”

“I don’t know. If you really want this, however, I imagine she could bring it about. Do your superiors know you are speaking with me?”

“I told them I was ill and had to stay in bed this morning.

“You had better go. It isn’t safe for either of us to be talking this way. If you really want to be reconciled with Mathilda, she will make a way for that to happen. You can see that you’re not safe here and that the religion of the Saxons is not a shield against her. That she is kind and forgiving is clear from the fact that she has not destroyed you. I would be cautious, though, Bertina, and not presume upon her kindness. The part of her spirit who still dwells in the blog might not be so benevolent.”

She looked up at him, turned, and hurried to an entryway in the other side of the building—the maiden place where the holy women lived, he supposed. Rolf turned and watched the snow descend. So he knew why now. He could tell Mathilda if he ever saw her again.

If he ever saw her again, he thought as he sat down for the noon meal. After they had finished and were sipping wine, a hubbub arose in the winter silence outside. Rolf thought for a moment his people might have attacked. Still, he heard the sound of horses and the clatter of arms and armor. Everyone in the room rose, but he soon heard the Franks cheering. He got up and walked out the door alongside Father Ambrose.

An entourage—undoubtedly a military unit—came riding up the road. Twenty to thirty mounted soldiers led the procession. Ranks of infantry, four abreast, stretched out as far as Rolf could see. Shoulders and hats covered with snow, they made stoic progress toward the compound. The commander of the stockade came to greet the man at the head of the column. Rolf’s blood froze. He thought of trying to get away, but where would he go? He stood by Ambrose as the man dismounted. Salutes and greetings ran around. The commander of stockade gestured to Father Ambrose. The commander of the army that had just arrived at the compound strode over. He greeted Ambrose, but already his eyes were dark with rage. No way out, Rolf thought. He wondered if the man would kill him on the spot. He stared for a full minute before speaking.

“I see that God has brought justice at last,” he said. “I’ve lived to see you die. And I get to kill you myself.”

Ambrose looked over at Rolf. “My Lord, I don’t understand. This man has my protection.”

The commander, who had been introduced as Clodion, spat on the ground.

“He will die on the spot.”

“I took him captive in battle,” Rolf said, looking over at Ambrose, “at the skirmish at Wendon Brook. We imprisoned him and held him ransom. During the imprisonment he was honorably treated. We care for his wounds and nursed him back to health.”

Clodion said nothing. Ambrose repeated, a little more loudly, “This man is under my protection.” Clodion gripped the hilt of his sword. To Rolf’s surprise, Ambrose stepped between them. “Leave your sword in its scabbard, Clodion. I swore an oath in the name of God that no harm would come to this man. Do not unsheathe your sword, lest you cut your soul from the Kingdom of Heaven with it. No harm will come to him. Remember who is the King of the kings of the Earth.”

“Not you, Priest.”

“No, not me. And keep your blasphemies to yourself. No harm comes to this man or you break an oath to God and face his wrath—and the wrath of his Church.”

Clodion probably did not fear God, but Rolf could tell from his reaction that he feared the Church. He glared at Rolf and then at Ambrose and walked off. Ambrose watched him go his way. “We probably ought to come in out of the snow,” he said.

They went back into the dining hall, deserted now. They sat down and finished their wine. Rolf told Ambrose more of the details on the fight with Clodion.

“Don’t fear. I’ll see to it that he doesn’t harm you.”

They had just finished their wine when four armed guards came into the room. The men converged on Rolf. Ambrose rose.

“No harm will come to this man,” one of the guards said. “We’re under order, though, to take him into custody and confine him. He will be well-treated. Clodion has ordered us to do this. He will speak to you about his reason, but we’re under orders to restrain him and we have to follow orders, Father. Please don’t oppose us.” He looked over at Rolf, who nodded affirmatively. Ambrose went off to see Clodion. Rolf went with the four armed men.

They crossed the compound. The snow has stopped falling. He could see the soldiers who had just marched in setting up tents and lighting fires for cooking. Hundreds of troops had bivouacked at the fortress. Their presence could only mean an invasion of Saxon territory. His escort marched him to a small house and led him inside.

The house contained a cot. Beneath it was a chamber pot. He noticed the floor was stone. A small fireplace blazed in on the east wall. The soldiers shoved him inside and closed the door. He heard the noise of a bolt thrown across the outside; scuffling, voice, and then the tread of feet. They were guarding him. He stepped up to the fireplace and warmed himself. He looked around. Other than the light from the fire, a small barred window in the door let light in. He noticed there was a sliding panel for him to close or open it.

Rolf sat down on the cot. He wondered what now. His thoughts strayed to Mathilda. Was she all-knowing as a goddess, or limited? The stories were inconsistent. The gods knew all, it was said, yet in the legends they could be deceived and tricked—only by other gods? It seemed that at times mortals fooled them as well. And the gods were not all equal. The highest gods knew what went on upon the earth, but Mathilda seemed more a local deity, a genius of the vast forest his people inhabited. Her power might be limited to that territory. Yet she had appeared to him out of that territory, or at least on the fringes of it. He wondered how he would pass the time during his confinement.

After a few hours Father Ambrose came.

“I’ve talked with Clodion. He will not be persuaded to let you go. He respects the conditions I set, so no one will hurt you. I’ll keep persuading him to give your liberty back, but I’m not sure it will make much of an impression.”

“He is leading a force, and undoubtedly it will go against my people. I can see why he would not want me free. I might escape and alert my people.”

“This is so.”

“I thank you for protecting me, Father.”

Ambrose opened his mouth and then closed it, not saying whatever it was he intended to say. Rolf imagined it was some kind of pious statement about how he should thank the Christian god and the love that founded their religion, but he thought better of it. Rolf respected him as a man, and he could tell as much. It would seem dishonorable to use mutual admiration for purposes of crass proselytization. Ambrose bowed and took his leave.

IV

He spent two days in the confines of the room. As promised, he was not harmed. Guards delivered food and firewood to him and emptied the chamber pot. Once Ambrose did come in and outline the tenets of the Christian faith. Otherwise, Rolf passed the time recalling lines from the heroic poems and sacred hymns he had heard often enough to have half-memorized parts of them. On the morning of the second day, two soldiers escorted him out of the cell.

He crossed the snowy grounds the stockade enclosed. The soldiers took him into Clodion’s presence.

He sat at a table. Big, formidable, with the rough face and steely gaze warriors often possess, he looked at Rolf.

“Saxon, your name is Rolf, son of Fredyk?”

“That is my name, yes.”

“Do you know the village of Baldenmarsh?” Rolf did not answer. “I’m told you grew up in a village near to it.” He gazed directly at Rolf. “The woman we’re going to burn this afternoon, Bertilda, told us as much.” He waited for a reaction.

“Why are you going to burn her?”

“She is a blasphemer. She claimed to be a virgin and took vows dedicating herself to our Lord. We have since found out, from two soldiers who are of your people but have been baptized, that the woman is far from being a chaste maiden—that, in fact, she was quite the flaming whore before coming here. She has defiled the holy place where the true maidens live. She admitted as much when the Abbess confronted her. She is being held pending her death this afternoon.”

He rose and lumbered out of the room. Rolf followed him. The two guards trailed behind. They traversed the interior of the stockade. He noticed the soldiers had broken camp. They had pulled up their tents and were loading gear. A smith had brought a grinding wheel. Men were lined up to sharpen swords. Rolf saw the showers of sparks and heard the grating of metal. Pairs of men practiced their swordsmanship. Other tended to bowstring and used flints to sharpen the barbs on their bolts. They were ready to move out for an attack. The village of Baldenmarsh was only ten miles from where he lived.

Clodion came to a door. One of the soldiers rushed up and opened it. He stepped inside and gestured for Rolf to follow.

Even as he came into the room he heard sobbing. His eyes adjusted to see Bertina. They had hung her up by her wrists with her feet off the floor. Like Mathilda at her execution, she wore only a thin smock. Blood ran from below her hands and her face was drawn in agony. Clodion walked over and pushed on her with a finger. She screamed, the slight movement sending a shock of agony through her body.

“Too bad she’ll have to hang here for another three hours,” he said. “She thinks she is in agony. She doesn’t know how much her pain will increase in the remaining time she is here. Then, of course, her execution. The wood is wet and the day windy. It won’t be quick.”

He looked at her in her mute agony. Clodion regarded him.

“My troops plan to support an attack on the center forest of Saxony. If you cooperate with me, I can assure your safety and safety and freedom for the girl. You must agree to lead my troops to Badenmarsh. If you agree to lead us there, we will release you and the girl. Ambrose gave his word that you will not be harmed, and you will not. But her . . . it won’t be a pretty thing to see. I feel for the poor child.”

He looked at her again. His mind raced, covering the things that Clodion had just said. The Franks attacked on horse supported by infantry. If they planned to use the village of Badenmarsh, they would have to assemble in the meadow of Nerthus, a place where both horse and foot could easily maneuver. If the Franks could get the Saxon army into the open and then hit them from the direction of Badenmarsh, it would be a route and possibly destruction for the entire Saxon force. He only hoped they did not know the terrain that well.

“You will give freedom to both of us?”

“We will. We know you came here to free this woman.”

“I love her and want her as my wife. To have that, I will lead you to Badenmarsh.”

He nodded to one of his men, who undid the rope and let her down. He untied the knot enveloping her wrist. She wept and writhed, licking the raw places on her arms and sobbing.

“Fetch some healing balm for her wrists,” he said.

Clodion nodded. One of the two men left. Bertina began to wail and sob. Rolf knelt by her side.

“We’ll send a physician to bind her wounds. I’ll leave it to you to tell her she will not be burned. We march before the morning light.”

He departed. The door closed. He stroked Bertina’s long, thin hair and touched her face.

“It’s over,” he whispered. “No one is going to hurt you.”

“Burn me,” she sobbed. “They’re going to burn me.”

“No. Not now. You’re coming with me. I can’t guarantee that we’ll live through this, but they’re not going to burn you.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Why?” she asked after a long moment.

“I couldn’t bear to see you suffer like that. And I need you to help me save my village and my people from Saxon conquest.”

She seemed to want to ask more but pain overcame her. She fell to quiet weeping once more. A physician came in, cleaned her wounds, rubbed healing balm on, bandaged them, and departed. Rolf knelt for a time and then, unable to kneel any longer, stretched out beside her. She cried and shook. He reached over and massaged her shoulders, which he knew were more a source of pain than her wrists. Eventually she fell asleep.

Rolf got up and walked outside. Two guards were posted outside the building, but they did not hinder him. The tents were gone. He saw Frankish troops carrying bedrolls into the various buildings of the compound. They were sleeping inside this morning so they could start out before dawn. The sky had cleared. Stars shown in an arch above him: Orion huge over the horizon, the Bear, the Sisters, and all the others gleaming around a gibbous waning moon. He asked one of the guards for a blanket. He flagged a soldier who brought them two. Rolf went back inside. Bertilda sat on the floor, examining the dressings on her wrists. She looked up when he came in.

“It’s going to be cold tonight. It will be better if we strip and sleep together. We can keep warm that way.”

She looked as if she meant to object but then nodded and pulled off the smock. He undressed and laid his clothing in a pile, putting one of the blankets over it. They stretched out and pulled the other blanket over their bodies.

Her flesh felt cold, but they warmed. She was a small woman but strong and shapely. As they clung to each other, the inevitable happened. Rolf felt coupling with Bertina would be a betrayal of Mathilda, but he did nothing when she pushed him so he was flat on his back and climbed on top of him. She reached down to guide his member into her and pushed to enfold him. She had been in the maiden house for months, he thought, and she had been a promiscuous woman in past days; so had Mathilda. Bertina began to move up and down in a slow, even pace, her breasts brushing his chest, her arms gripping his shoulders with surprising strength. Passion took her. Eyes closed tightly, teeth clenched and lips pressed together, she moved, tightening and loosening the muscles inside her, gasping and quietly moaning until joy shook her and she stopped. He thought she might go to sleep, but she dutifully began moving again until he was finished. She rolled off and went to sleep. That was the end of it.

He wondered if Mathilda, in her new role as a goddess, would know what he had done. He thought she might appear to him and rebuke him. He did see her in his dream, but she said nothing and did not look angry. She stood in the crumbles the guarded the village of Badenmasrsh. As he watched, she extended her hands. Snow fell in billows from the sky. She had confirmed what he had planned to do. A trumpet awakened him. Though still dark, it was time for the Frankish army to move out.

He and Bertina rose and got ready to go. The physician who had examined her brought her a dress, boots, a cloak and mittens. He removed the dressings and examined her wrists. Pleased that they were healing, he said it would be best to leave them open to the air. She should be careful not to break the scabs and, above all, not to scratch no matter how badly her wounds itched.

Clodion, mounting on a large black horse, rode up to them. He smirked, thinking (correctly) they had enjoyed each other during the night. He imagined (incorrectly) that they were lovers emotionally and physically attached to one another. Not wanting to shatter the illusion, Rolf looked just slightly angry when Clodion leered at them.

“Horses for you and your companion,” he said. Rolf helped Bertina up on hers and mounted his own. “You’ll ride with me and my generals. If you attempt escape or treachery, you will be killed, both of you. You will lead us to Badenmarsh—to the most advantageous approach to the village. When victory is ours, I give you my word I will set you free and send you on your way with ample funds to establish yourselves wherever you may want to go.”

Rolf nodded. The stars had shifted. The moon had gone down. The sharp cold made everyone move quickly. Clouds of steam rose from the horses mouths. His fingers and ears stung. A trumpet sounded and the army started out, Clodion, his generals, and Rolf and Bertina, leading on horseback. The other soldiers—Rolf estimated the force at a thousand—marched behind, armor clanking, spears bristling above their ranks.

Clodion had prepared well, Rolf noticed. The snow had been cleared by oxen pulling logs. It was easy for the horses and, more importantly, the foot soldiers to make their way forward. They seemed like a disciplined army and made good time. The sun turned the horizon pink for a moment and then to the white light so characteristic of a winter dawn.

Rolf ran over his plan. It could go wrong, he knew. The Franks might recognize what he plotted. They were not familiar with the territory or they would not have impressed him as a guide. Still, it would be easy to tell, just from the lay of the land, what he would lead them to. Only a good covering of snow would deceive them, and the snow seemed to have thinned the last few days. Besides this, a group of Saxons had joined them. They might know the area—though, he pondered, if they did why had Clodion not simply used them as guides? Still, it was a possible danger.

They rode, stopping after four hour’s march. The soldiers broke into squads. Clodion gave them bread and wine. He seemed lighter, almost chipper, flushed with the possibility of victory. “This day the forest will be ours,” he said. Rolf only nodded. Bertina drank wine. After a short rest, they went on. The land grew more familiar. Rolf noticed formations and landmarks he knew; after that, he rested in the familiarity of his homeland. Clodion turned to him. “We are near the precincts of the village where the attack will take place.”

“It’s three miles from here. Your best course would be to get off the road and go through the forest. There is a path wide enough for horses and wide enough for your soldiers to march by twos. It will bring us in sight of the village.”

“Won’t the road take us to the lea side of the village?”

“It will, but you will not escape detection. My people will harry you and shoot arrows from the shelter of the trees. If we come the other way we will escape detection.”

“If you’re lying, leading us astray, or deceiving us in any way, boy, I’ll have this woman skinned alive in front of your eyes. Then it will be your turn.”

Bertina blenched. Rolf thought for a moment she might faint, but she recovered. Dread shone in her eyes but she kept quiet. Satisfied that he had frightened them, Clodion told his commanders they would be cutting through the wood to approach the village from the rear.

He formed his troops into a double rank. All were armed with swords, a few with bows that shot bolts, and with oval shields. On his order, they advanced at a slow pace toward Baldermarsh. A light snow began to fall as they moved out.

Ahead, Rolf could hear the sound of battle. As he had anticipated, the Franks had attacked the Saxons at the meadow of Nerthus, which was a sacred site. He heard the whinnying of horses and the cacophony of war—screaming, shouting, the ringing sound of sword on sword, the blare of trumpets ordering troops to different locations on the field. He waited. The snow increased in velocity. Looking about, he saw Clodion and three of his officers, three guards, sitting on horses. Four foot soldiers stood behind them so he and Bertina could not escape into the forest.

Rolf held his breathe, waiting. He reflected, ironically, on how would die in the battle without lifting a sword in his defense. He hoped they would not have time to torture Bertina to death as Clodion had threatened. He waited for the deception that would mean their deaths to unfold. The ranks of Frankish soldiers advanced toward the meadow, keeping quiet, shuffling down a bank toward the marsh now entirely concealed by deep snow. They moved, shuffling through the accumulation up to their thighs. Rolf held his breath. In a moment, he heard the sounds he had been waiting to hear: the sound of ice cracking, of water and mud splashing, and, after a moment, shouts, cursing, and screaming.

The snow cover had concealed from Clodion’s force that they were advancing over what the locals called The Crumbles. The Crumbles was a wet, marshy area of land where the soil was supersaturated with water—not a lake or pond but a bog. In winter the surface froze enough that you could walk over it, but the weight of an army had broken the ice and the frozen mud on the surface. The Frankish soldiers began to sink into the frigid mire.

Rolf also noticed that the snow had begun to fall hard—so hard you could not see more than a foot beyond where you stood.

In the next moments several things happened at once. The cries of dismay, angry, and annoyance from the soldiers turned to cries of fear, anguish, and pain. The crumbles was not deep, but in winter it could be deadly and people who had wandered into it were trapped and died of cold. The icy water would suck the heat from one’s body in minutes. The muck would encumber the soldiers to the degree that they could not extract themselves. And they were in armor and carrying weapons. The sound of the Frankish company turned from cries of anger and dismay to cries or astonishment and terror.

The snow fell in clumps and clusters. Rolf heard Clodion’s horse stir, though he could not see him now even as close as they were. Clodion roared out an imprecation. Rolf wheeled his horse about, seized the reins to Bertina’s horse, and spurred the animal in what he thought was the direction of the path they had come down. He heard a thump and realized he had hit one of the foot soldiers guarding them. He heard the clatter of chain mail and military equipment. He needed to be armed. His horse whinnied loudly. He had not found the road. He and Bertina had come to a line of trees too dense to ride through. He leaped off his steed.

“Stay here,” he said. “Don’t try to ride away.” Rolf sprinted through the curtain of white following the fast-disappearing tracks his horse had made. The soldier he had hit lay on the ground, stunned. Rolf stomped on his arm, wrenched the sword from his hand and killed him with one stroke. He took his dagger as well and turned, looking for Clodion and the remaining Franks.

He bumped into one, briefly engaged and dispatched him. Not able to see, he listened. The sounds coming from the crumbles had altered. Now he could heard, besides the screaming and shouting of the trapped army, the sound of bolts released and of arrows flying. It was hard to use a bow in wet weather, but he knew the rear guard left behind to watch Badenmarsh, had seen the situation and fetched bows out of their houses. Arrows whizzed making a swishing sound. Men cried out in pain as the arrows reached their marks. He heard the clattering of armor. Out of the curtain of white, another of the infantry soldiers charged him. Rolf parried his thrust. He slipped and fell, the weather making him invisible. Rolf listened but only heard the pandemonium from The Crumbles. He waited, sword at ready, but did not hear the soldier again. He decided it was time to find Bertina.

He tried to remember his direction and stumbled across her. Snow had coated her cloak. Off in the distance, the din of the battle rang in their ears, carrying through the stillness of winter to such a degree that both of them heard words, curses, prayers, oaths, as clearly as if the men speaking them were only a few feet away.

“Come on,” he said. “If we skirt this line of trees, it will take us back to the pathway.”

As he said this, he heard hooves. Someone was riding down on them. He turned and stepped away from Bertina. A dark shape formed through the snow. Someone was trying to ride him down. Black horse. It was Clodion.

Fear should have gripped him at this point, but he had fought this man before and knew that, whatever his reputation, however he had risen to a command position in Frankish army, he was not a particularly good fighter. Rolf had disarmed and captured him once before. He was too hot-headed to master the discipline and concentration necessary to become a consummately skillful solider. And like most cavalry officers, he put too much faith in the strength of a horse. All of this went through Rolf’s mind in only a second, and by the time Clodion came close enough that he could see his face, he knew what he course of action to take.

Rather than fleeing from the horse, he stepped directly into its path, waited until he could see its eyes and nostrils and suddenly brandished his sword so it pointed directly at the horse’s muzzle.

Horses would not charge into sharp objects. The animal cried out and abruptly twisted sideways to avoid Rolf’s sword. Clodion flew out of the saddle as the horse skidded past Rolf, its legs askew, hooves trying to find traction. The animal righted itself and galloped off into the white curtain obscuring the world around them.

Rolf crossed over to where he lay. He was hurt. He poked at him with his sword.

“Finish me, Saxon,” he said.

“Your army is destroyed. The main body was counting on your attack from the rear.”

“If you have any regard for me as a soldier, don’t make me face my shame.”

“I would have done that except that you tortured Bertina and threatened to flay her alive. I’ll take you captive a second time. We’ll find out if your King sees fit to ransom you again.”

The billowing snow had already covered Clodion. Rolf heard a noise, the movement of a horse. He turned. A few feet away he saw one of Clodion’s lieutenants leveling a crossbow at him. Before he could move, the soldier pulled the trigger.

The next three things seemed to happen in time slowed down but also to happen so quickly they blurred into one. The bolt did not strike him. Mathilda stood beside him. She had caught the missile in her hand. When the soldiers saw this—all of three of Clodion’s lieutenant’s had ridden up by now—they turned and fled down the path that Rolf knew would only lead them to the main Saxon force.

They faced each other. Mathilde handed him the bolt.

“Keep this. It would have killed you.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not sure my people would have made you immortal—otherwise I would have let it go into your heart. Get Bertina for me.”

He nodded. The snow diminished so he could see her and her horse only a few feet away from them. He walked over and told her to dismount.

“We’re safe now. Come on.”

She climbed down, sensing something in the tone of his voice. He took her hand and led her over to where Mathilda stood. When she saw her, she went pale and sank to her knees. Mathilda stepped up to her, reached down, and took hold of her chin, lifting her face so they looked into each other’s eyes.

“What do you have to say to me, Bertina?” Mathilda asked.

Rolf thought she would be too terrified to speak but she replied in a clear, even voice.

“I know I am face to face with a spirit. I am not worthy to even speak to you. My sin has found me out. Forseti the God of Justice has delivered me into your hands. Do to me what you wish to do. I am not fit to live.”

“It should hearten me to hear you say that, but I realize I was partly to blame for what you did. You loved Dedrik. I should not have stolen him from you.”

“It did not justify what I did to you.”

“We were two vain, foolish women. We’ve both learned wisdom by what we’ve suffered. The Fates have kept us alive, though in different ways. We should both be thankful for that. Dedrik is here. He survived the battle. He knows the wrong he did in abandoning you for me. If you can forgive him, you two might be reconciled and you might marry him as you always dreamed.”

She looked up and met Mathilda’s eyes.

“This is sacred day of victory,” she said. “It is not a day for petty vengeance. I hope both of us have learned the shallowness of such behavior. I have.”

Bertina only nodded. Rolf heard noises and readied his sword. The snow had diminished now to the degree that he could see the soldiers approaching them were Saxon.

“Take Bertina with you. I’ll come to you tonight,” Mathilda said. She vanished. The soldiers who approached Rolf seemed not to have seen her. Among them was Fredyk. He threw down his sword, ran over and embraced his son. The others converged on the injured Clodion. Then they noticed Bertina. After Fredyk had broken off his embrace with Rolf, he leveled his gaze at her. He was a grizzled veteran of many campaigns. Rolf noticed he was bleeding slightly (his left shoulder). He looked over at Bertina.

“This woman is a traitor who converted to the Frankish religion. Hang her.”

“No.” Rolf stepped between them. “She was most helpful to me. She did convert but then realized the error of her ways. When she repudiated the Christian religion, the Franks tortured her, as you will see by looking at her wrists. She helped me escape. I ask that you spare her and receive her back into the tribe.”

His father nodded. More soldiers had appeared. The ones who had come with his father were lifting Clodion up. Ferdyk’s face twisted into something faintly resembling a smile.

“You’ve captured this man twice.”

“He’s not much of a soldier,” Rolf said.

“You led his army into the Crumbles. The whole force perished. They had attacked us with foot and cavalry but not a large enough army to have defeated us. They relied on stealth, planning to hit us from behind. They could have destroyed us if they had. We owe you our very lives and the lives of our people.”

“Their force?”

“Destroyed or captured. It was a great victory. We were led by Teutorix.”

Teutorix came from the northern reaches of Saxony, by the sea. He was wild and fanatic—driven by religious fervor for the old gods. Many people said he had the gift of prophecy. His followers were wild with fanaticism. He had proved a strong leader and skillful tactician. Rolf was surprised he had come this far south.

“He led an army down this far?”

His father managed a full smile this time. “He came here to consult with our leaders and his heart was smitten by the sight of Steora.”

“Steora?”

“Steora the daughter of Gerolt. I think you were friends with her, one might say. He merely set eyes on her and declared that the eternal gods had shown him his bride. They were married the next day. She rides with him into battle.” He looked at Rolf’s hand. “Why are holding that bolt.”

He glanced at it. “One of their soldiers let it fly at me. It glanced off my tunic and stuck in a tree. I was so amazed I retrieved it.”

“The gods were with you.”

“They certainly were,” he murmured.

The snow had completely stopped by now. He and his father walked to the edge of The Crumbles to see the results of Rolf’s deception. The frozen muck, churned up by the feet of a thousand advancing soldiers, showed black as the sun broke through the clouds, chunks of ice glistening in its light. The bodies lay or stood upright. Many had been killed by arrows but just as many had died from the cold. A few had stumbled through staggered to the far shore but were too weak to resist their captors. They had been taken prisoner. They would be killed or sold as slaves. The unit guarding the village was already beginning to lasso the bodies and pull them out of the cold, black mire to strip them of weapons, armor, and valuables. Rolf thought of how he had led them all to their deaths. He knew of the carnage, rape, and pillage invading armies engaged in when victorious. The Christian warriors saw the Saxons as pagans who were not fully human and so their morality did not apply to this conquered people. He had never relished killing and had to force himself to boast of his exploits when the men assembled after battle for wine and talk. He had a good record for his age. The older men respected him, especially for his first capture of Clodion. He would be a hero now and possibly be added to the village council, despite his youth, for his decisive action in the latest battle. He did not particularly relish the idea. As often as you defeated the Franks, they came back to fight again. They were numerous, organized, and determined. He wondered if his people could stand against them forever.

His father led him around to the other side of the village. In the meadow of Nerthus, the Saxons were rounding up prisoners. Some had been hanged. Some were reserved for burning in wicker cages as sacrifices to the gods. The others were being herded into groups of ten to be dispensed to various villages where they would be sold as slaves. Word of Rolf’s deception had spread through the Saxon camp. Men slapped him on the back and hailed him as a hero. After a while, he came face to face with Teutorix and Steora his bride.

Teutorix sat on a bay stallion. He was tall and strong, every bit the warrior. His armor soaked with blood, showed to the men and women there that he had been deep in the fray. Beside him, astride a white horse, Steora rode. She wore a buckskin dress, boots, and a cloak. A signet crown encircled her head. Her blonde hair flowed free as if she were a prophetess. She looked like Bellona, goddess of war. Rolf bowed to the couple who had successfully destroyed the Frankish army—with his help, no doubt. Teutorix, who looked wild-eyed and half-crazy, lifted his hand in praise.

“Rolf, Son of Fredyk. You have done the gods and your people a great service. We hail you as a hero and will reward your service.”

He bowed. Steora looked down at him. “We will enjoy hearing the account of his exploits at the feast tonight,” she said.

Rolf returned to the house in which he had grown up. His mother washed him. His sister Gretchen waited on him at table. His step-brothers and step-sisters ogled at him. They knew his previous successes in battle but never thought he would be a hero the entire village lauded. After eating and drinking, he rested in his own bed, which was a blessing. The journey here had been wearying. The tension of captivity and battle had drained him. He slept deeply until Helg woke him and told it was time for the burial and then for the celebration.

They walked out as a family. The village was assembled for the burial of the warriors who had been killed in the battle. Casualties had been light, but even light casualties meant grief and loss. His village had yielded four dead. Two of them were his age—young men he had grown up with. He wept to see them laid out for burial. He knew the older men as well. Their widows wailed. Their children wept. The village elders asked his help to carry them to the pyres. After burning their bodies, their bones and ashes were consigned to sacred ground. The people returned to their homes. The celebration would follow in an hour.

When he came to the gathering he found himself seated with the village leaders. During the course of the celebration he got to talk to Steora.

“I had an easy time of it,” she said. “I simply rode off. As you said, I found hospitality with a family who live nearby. The next day I arrived at my village. My family welcomed me back with open arms. Then Teutorix arrived. When he saw me, he cast his eyes on me and that night told me that Odin had indicated I was to be his bride. He’s a handsome man, Rolf, and I thought of you and of how much I loved you, but how could I rebuff him? I told Father I was not a virgin. I said the Franks had raped me and I could not show Teutorix a maidenhead. Father told him. He said he was fine with that. He insisted on wedding me and I had no choice but to consent. He called me Bellona. I thought he might want me for a chaste wife—Bellona is a virgin goddess—but that was certainly not what he had in mind. He always lays me before we go into battle. Once, when we were hemmed in by the Franks and regrouped our forces, he brought me into his tent and fucked me with all his strength. We broke out of the trap and marched home without a single loss. Of course, I’m pregnant now and won’t be able to ride with him much longer. Still, I see the touch of divinity in our marriage. I’m sorry, Rolf. I wanted to marry you. The gods intervened.”

The gods had intervened more decisively than Steora could ever imagine.

V

Rolf slept late. In the morning he knew she would be there. He dressed and made his way into a light snowfall. He saw her deer and followed it. He found Mathilda sitting on the trunk of a fallen maple tree. A snowy owl perched above her. Her deer came up and licked her hand. She wore her white embroidered robe and was barefoot. She wore no cloak or gloves. She smiled. Though still wary of her godhood, he came up and kissed her. He felt the seductive cold from her lips, felt it fill him and warm him. He took her hands.

“You’re not afraid of me anymore,” she said.

“You must be patient with me I’m not used to dealing with goddesses.”

“How will you deal with me now? Steora is out of your life. Bertina will marry Dedrik. You? Now that you’re hero, every family in the village will be throwing their eligible daughters at you—with sumptuous dowries.”

“Why would I care about that? Can a mortal love a goddess?”

“You’ve already loved me—with your soul and with your body. The question is, Can I gain immortality for you? Some of the gods get a little grumpy about dispensing it. They don’t want mortals to get the idea that you can just waltz into Valhalla and get made over so you live forever and have godlike powers. But”—she paused and smiled—“some very high-ups are impressed with your skill as a fighter and with your loyalty. They were impressed with the way you stood up to the Franks on Solstice and held out for the old faith when you were being proselytized. I think they will grant it. There are other reasons too.”

“What reasons?”

“The old ways are fading. The Franks will conquer our people. The old religion will pass away and we will live more quietly. Quite a few of them are gathering companions who will . . . admire them when their worship completely fades out. I’d say your prospects are good, Rolf.”

“I don’t care about prospects. I care about you.”

“That’s why I’m sure you will become immortal. You need to tell your family what happened. Tell them and don’t leave anything out. I will come to Helg in a vision. She is my kinswoman. She felt for me but had to think of what she would say to her family, especially to her daughters. I’ll speak to her so that when you leave it won’t merely be your word.”

“I’ll miss my family—especially Gretchen.”

“She will prosper. Your family will prosper. Go back now. When you come to me again, it will be to join me forever.”

Rolf returned and told his family—father, stepmother, Gretchen his sister and step-brothers and –sisters—what had happened. They gaped in amazement. He thought they might think him mad, but too many unusual things had happened with him of late for them to dismiss what he said. And the presence of Teutorix had increased religious fervor in the villages of his tribe. His father said they would miss him, and the village would know a sad gap in its ranks when he went away, but who could go against the immortal gods?

He spent a last night with them. In the morning, the buzz in the village was that they had found the body of Mathilda.

Rolf went down to the shore of The Crumbles. Washed up on north shore, one blackened arm extended as if she were trying to climb out of the mire, the body of Mathilda lay half in, half out of the water. She appeared as the villagers who had seen her walking, her face and body turned a dark color by the acids of the bog but her hair still gold. She wore the bloody smock in which she had been killed. The rope was still around her neck. It had broken off from the stone they used to sink her in the mire.

No one knew how she had come from the bog to The Crumbles. Some say she walked but many claimed an underground stream connected the two bodies of water and had carried her from one place to another. The Council met and stated that though it had not been wrong to execute her as an adulteress. It had been wrong to treat her so cruelly and to defile her corpse. The women of the village took her body, washed it, and dressed it in a new garment. She was buried among the people of the clan. The priests offered sacrifices to atone for the village’s sin and to quiet her vengeful spirit. When the burial was complete, Rolf went into the forest to find Mathilda.

He came to his house, much closer than it had seemed before. She stood by the front door to welcome him.

“Welcome, Rolf.”

He sensed he was being welcomed to her house but also to his apotheosis.

“That easy?” he asked.

“Everything is done.” She took his hands. “And my blessing will be on your village. It was vexing that a small part of my spirit was broken off and wandered the earth. I never came to grips with my anger and anguish over how I was treated there, so that part of me was excluded from divinity and roamed the earth as an angry, vindictive wraith. Now sacrifice and repentance has placated my anger. I’m whole. Your people won’t see that part of me again.”

“I’m happy to hear this.”

“I know you are. The kindness you showed to me—to a woman you didn’t even know—brought you to this—and brought me to this as well.”

He wanted to respond but could not find the words. She took him inside her chamber. The words would come later, though perhaps now, with things changed as they were, words would not be necessary. Words especially failed when you were love, and love crossed the line from the mortal to the immortal. He followed her into the bed chamber as the snow fell, a white curtain, through the towering trees outside.

• Continue Reading

Published by Karl Rademacher on July 9, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 22, Issue 22 Stories, Stories

The Rockwizard and the Wheatrider

By Noah Youngs

It stretched a scarred claw towards the glimmer of moonlight above, inching forward slowly. A thousand times it had tested its invisible prison, felt the sting of fire and lighting as it was forced back into the depths. But no fire burned… no acrid bolt singed its mark. The claw crept forward again, touching at last a tendril of the moon’s light, so long yearned for. It let out a low hiss. From the chasms below, a chorus of multitudes answered back.

#

When the first summons from the Mage Guild arrived, warning that the Seal of Myth had been broken and the greater and lesser fiends let loose upon the world once more, Ulliem threw it out. It was the Guild’s own fault for meddling with things, and he wasn’t about to pack up and leave for some backwater just because they needed him to make a few superstitious peasants feel safer.

Certainly the danger was greater in the frontiers than it was here in the city of Lastrania, where professional soldiers and warwizards manned stout walls, but Ulliem wasn’t afraid. He was too old to bother with fear anymore.

“It’s all just so confoundedly vague,” he complained to the statues and ornately adorned bits of masonry that littered his shop. Really he wasn’t too surprised, since the guildmasters themselves probably had little idea as to the extent of the peril. The Seal of Myth was one of the most unorthodox pieces of magic ever conjured, rumored to be equal parts genius, madness and accident. For nearly a thousand years, generations of guildmasters had poked and prodded at it, trying to comprehend its success. “And now they’ve gone and broken it,” Ulliem snorted.

The next day another summons arrived, this one scribed on parchment the color of rusted manacles, and icy to the touch. In no uncertain terms, it threatened Ulliem with forced labor under the cruel whips of warlock jailors unless he obeyed his charge. With a plethora of long-suffering sighs, the rockwizard packed his bags for Dern.

#

Perched half-heartedly on the shoulder of a ragged hill, Dern was a meager collection of thatched houses and gapped-wood barns meant for surpluses that seldom came.  Above the town a stumpy keep attempted vigilant guard, anchoring a road that wandered down past Dern, splitting wheat fields and bending to accommodate the curves of a small orchard. Before the road disappeared back the way Ulliem had come, a small track branched off northward, mostly reclaimed by tough dusty-green grass, marching towards a narrow canyon that sliced into the hills.

Missing a turn in the path, the rockwizard wandered though the orchard, forlornly prodding at the hard, unripe fruits. He found the road again, unaware that he’d ever lost it, all the while cursing the carriage driver who had taken his money but dropped him off leagues down the road. Making his way slowly up the hill, past the wheat fields, Ulliem finally reached what a generous man might call ‘the center of town’. The rockwizard fell into a bony heap near the well, ignoring the stares of the dozen or so Dernians who had gathered after spotting his protracted approach.

Many folk accustomed to city and culture would have been dismayed by the dull prospect of Dern, but Ulliem, despite having lived in the midst of both, was neither. Stone was the only thing of permanence in his life– people just wandered in and out of it without leaving much behind.

What did dismay him was the question of what exactly he was supposed to do now that he was here. More sculptor than sorcerer, the rockwizard’s grip on the arcane had never been more than tenuous at the height of his study, many years ago, and his mildly prosperous career had been based largely on the skill of his hands rather than the strength of his incantations.

Not that it looked as if the village felt much need for a powerful wizard. Everyone seemed so calm. He’d expected a grateful parade, or at least a tearful speech or two, thanking him for abandoning the safety of Lastrania to save them from nightmarish danger. But even though he knew riders had warned every town after the Seal had shattered, he caught not even a whiff of dread.

“Where’s the governor of these parts? Where’s the engineer of fortifications, and the colonel of the militia?” he snapped at no one in particular, ignoring timid greetings and proffered hands.

Ulliem felt resentment swelling inside him, fueled by hunger and the fatigue of his weeklong journey. He’d managed to save up some money before the summons had come, perhaps enough to retire. But it was all gone now, spent on wearying travel. Picking a stalk of wheat from where it had hitched a ride in his robe, he began to chew on it angrily.

Finally a blacksmith pushed his way through the crowd, introducing himself and motioning to the rockwizard to follow him up the hill. Peering irritably up at the large man in his leather apron, Ulliem made out a broad, unsympathetic face, ruddy with forge-heat. Ulliem spat the stalk into the dirt and rose to his feet, mumbling obscenities under his breath as he trailed in the smith’s wake.

As they approached the squat keep, the rockwizard pursed his lips in disappointment. It was a sham-castle, built with barely enough strength to keep out fear. The four walls seemed to lean on each other for support, rife with holds for many-armed demons, and its warding runes looked to have been cast by false-bearded charlatans hoping to turn village superstition into coin. Worst was the stone, aching with strain and compromise. It smelled of a time when fiends were already painted into story, sealed in myth. It would never stand against their manifestation.

Just outside the arched gateway to the keep, a middle-aged man awaited, standing behind a woman seated in a rolling chair of the kind found commonly in guildhalls of medicine. She was graceful, even in her old age, but her eyes wandered about absently, and with a shudder Ulliem recognized the vacant stare of the mind-lapsed. It was a fate that sometimes came to the elderly before their time was spent, and the rockwizard had often wondered of late whether it lurked for him just around the next season’s corner, bemusing arms held wide in insidious welcome.

“I, acting mayor Ralten, welcome you to the city of Dern, on behalf of our citizens and my mother, mayor Lenorra” the man intoned in a reedy voice. Clearly bought for exorbitant prices from some traveling swindler, his clothes were gaudy, full of gold thread and colored-glass jewels. The way he held the rolling chair was more reminiscent of someone clinging to a badge of office than a loved one.

Ulliem had no skill at divining, but he had read nearly all the great books of Insight in his youth. Adding to this knowledge were many years of experience carving the likenesses of Lastranian aristocracy, including more than a few pompous and spoiled noblemen’s sons. The rockwizard saw at once that while the mayor Lenorra had been erudite and wise, her son Ralten had managed to travel the road of literature without passing through the city of learning, and had stopped a few leagues short of wisdom.

“Yes, very nice town” Ulliem snapped by way of response, still in a resentful mood as he gazed about disapprovingly.

There was an awkward pause, and then a mousy-looking woman in an overlarge striped apron appeared from inside the gates, followed by a half-dozen children of varying ages, who quickly formed into a line. Ulliem caught a delicious whiff of something baked trailing behind the woman, and he craned his neck to look for the source.

“Allow me to introduce the rest of my family,” Ralten said stiffly, clearly annoyed by the rockwizard’s response. He turned, his mouth entertaining a frown that looked quite at home. “It seems we are one child short. Adopted children are often more willful than natural kin.”

“Mmmmm,” Ullien agreed sagely, moving towards the acting mayor’s wife to speed on the commencement of the meal. Shaking hands, ignoring names, and murmuring pleasant nonsense, the rockwizard moved down the line of children until he reached the blacksmith.

“We’ve met, Wizard, by the well. I told you my name was Mungar,” the blacksmith reminded him emotionlessly, but Ulliem was lost in the smells of fresh cooking.

“Good lad. Carry on,” he replied, before moving once more and offering his hand to the empty air.

Ralten cleared his throat, momentarily unsure how to treat the seemingly senile old man. “Ah, do you have any questions about our city or the environs?” the acting mayor asked finally, tugging at Ulliem’s attention.

“The canyon to the north, a quarry if I don’t mistake my guess? Do you still mine good blocks?” Ulliem inquired, momentarily diverted from gastronomical reverie.

“No quarrying in these parts. That canyon is a sacred place,” Ralten answered tersely, his face darkening, but Ulliem missed the reaction.

“Hmm, too bad. There was some sandstone lying about that was quite a luscious red… never seen its like. I might go take a peek and see if there’s anything of size,” the rockwizard mused.

Ralten looked suddenly angry, drawing himself up. “As acting mayor, you are under my direction. That canyon is a holy place, and I abjure you from setting foot in it,” he declared haughtily. “What’s more,” he continued, “I’ll thank you to keep any displays of magic or talk of fiends to yourself. We’re a simple folk here, with quite enough to keep us busy without you spreading fear with horror stories and nightmares. I don’t know what this business is the Mage Guild has gotten itself into, but I’m sure it has nothing to do with us.”

“Now, see here–” Ulliem said, offended, but Ralten interrupted, regaining his composure.

“Let us speak no more of this until we have dined, Master Wizard,” he declared, “my wife has prepared a meal in your honor.”

Ulliem grumbled, still affronted and of a mind to dispel a bit of the arrogant man’s ignorance. But his stomach was grumbling too, and in his experience ignorance was hardly ever conquered in a day.

The meal was not half-bad, and made all the better for the rockwizard by leagues of travel and cold, stale food. Ulliem found his good spirits returned, and lavished florid compliments on the acting mayor’s wife between mouthfuls.

“Lady, a more succulent roast there has never been on the highest tables of golden lords…Madame, truly what ambroisal meade you have deigned to grace us with…Oh goddess of ovencraft, thy pies drip with delectable juice!”

Ralten sat in sullen silence. After dinner, his furiously blushing wife led Ulliem to a room that smelled as if it might quite recently have been a meat-curing pantry. Exhausted and full, the rockwizard kicked off his boots, threw down his satchel, and dropped like a felled tree into the small cot, snoring loudly within minutes.

The next morning, Ulliem awoke early, sneaking out of the keep. Whistling a lively tune, he ambled down the hill, barefoot, heading for the very quarry he had been “abjured” from the day before.

Farmers were already in the fields, pausing to stare at him as he passed, but none moved to bar his way, and he made sure to wait until he had passed them all before turning northward. When at last he reached the canyon mouth, two pillars greeted him, standing sentry. They were fashioned out of the same deep red sandstone that seemed to find its origins in the canyon beyond, and Ulliem marveled at their craftsmanship.

“Now here’s some stonework,” the rockwizard murmured to himself, stepping closer to the columns. “Crafted in the Heuric style, if I don’t mistake my guess.”

A quarryman’s pickaxe was carved into the base of each pillar, chiseled skillfully to give the illusion of two entirely different stones being welded together. Above the axes, partially obscured by lichen, subtle runes wound about the pillars, calling for good fortune, safety, and strength of stone. There was something else too, hidden.

“Sir Wizard!” A cry came from behind him, breaking his focus.

Ulliem whirled to see a small girl running towards him. Her long strawberry-blond hair, uncharacteristic of the region, streamed behind her, and sunlight picked out a yellow ribbon at her waist.

“You don’t have to call a wizard sir, little girl,” he snapped, annoyed at having been caught. “That address is for trained knights and merchant’s second sons with deep enough pockets to buy the title.”

The girl nearly skidded to a halt in front of Ulliem, abashed, clasping her hands behind her back. “You don’t have to call a girl little, Sir Wizard,” she said seriously, staring at the ground. “That’s for babies and boys who pick their noses and don’t know right from left.”

Ulliem couldn’t help but laugh.

She looked up at him, smiling, before growing serious again, her miniature hand lifted towards the twin columns. “You shouldn’t go near the benee nee,” the girl warned in a solemn whisper. “It’s not a place for trampsing feet or loud breaths.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t traipse on the binny inny,” he reassured her indulgently. “I’m just going to have a looksee…” he trailed off, squinting at the girl suspiciously. “How did you come here lass? I always look behind me, and the fields were empty but a few moments ago.”

She beamed at him, shifting her weight to one leg and twisting her other toe in the grass. “I rode the wheat,” she said simply, and the rockwizard loosed a chuckle.

“Hmmm, can I ride it too?” he asked amusedly, assuming that she had simply been hiding in a field. “These old feet are tired.”

She scrunched up her lips, shaking her head after a moment’s thought. “You can’t ride the wheat. It doesn’t know your song.”

The answer might have given Ulliem pause, except that he wasn’t listening, focused on the pillars once more. They were still nagging at him, and he stepped closer, closing his eyes as he placed a hand flat against the cool stone. There it was, just under the surface. More runes overlapped each other as if the column had been carved from the inside out, a higher magic than the rockwizard had ever even dreamed of achieving. Trying to recollect long-ago studies, Ulliem recognized a few of the sigils. A soul-binding spell? Ulliem frowned. That didn’t make sense at all.

A sudden jolt traveled up the rockwizard’s other arm, as if he’d touched a bell being struck. Ulliem looked down to see the girl firmly gripping his hand, her leaf-green eyes holding his.

“No,” she intoned firmly, and Ulliem found himself unable to move for a moment. Then the girl smiled, and the spell was broken as warmth flooded over the old rockwizard. In amazement, he allowed her lead him back down the grassy track and towards the main road.

“What’s your name, lass?” Ulliem asked as they approached the town.

“Thealenne“ she replied, and then began to sing a wordless melody.

“That’s a nice tune, Thealenne. Did you make it up?” he asked her.

She shook her head, sending strawberry-blonde hair flying in every direction like a started flock of birds. “Granma Norra, used to sing it before her songs got trapped inside. I don’t ‘member the words though, unless she sings it with me.”

“Granma Norra? Norra, Lenorra. That would make you Ralten’s missing adopted child…oh, er, hmmm.” Ulliem trailed off in consternation, not knowing if he had unwittingly revealed the girl’s false parentage, but Thealenne’s nose had wrinkled at the mention of the acting mayor.

“Uncle Ralten used to say he was my daddy, but I knew right away he wasn’t.” She declared firmly, and Ullien laughed aloud at her fervent tone.

“Aye, Thea Wheatrider, I wouldn’t have thought that he was.”

Thea clapped her hands and laughed happily at the title he had given her. She rose up on her toes, and then back down again, squinting at Ulliem with pursed lips. “Sir Ully!” she exclaimed, giving him a nickname in return, and the two were fast friends.

#

The following weeks quickly settled into a routine for Ulliem, who spent his mornings stomping around the town and surrounding hills. There were no signs of danger, and the rockwizard began to treat his post as something of a retirement after all. Dragging a chair into the shade just outside the keep walls, he passed long afternoons napping, an unlit pipe drooping from the corner of his mouth as he snored.

Sometimes in the evening Thea would find him and they would put on a show for Ralten’s other children. Ulliem played a cracked lute passed on by Lenorra’s late husband, and Thea would sing in a beautiful soprano that was amazingly complex. But for the most part the girl seemed to prefer her own company, and so he frequently passed the evenings alone, chiseling away at some small piece of the red sandstone. The rockwizard didn’t mind her absences, fully understanding the need for solitude.

It took the villagers of Dern less than a fortnight to get over their amazement at having a resident wizard, especially since he refused to perform any magic for them. Ulliem told any who asked that he was following Ralten’s orders, but secretly he was afraid that if the town discovered how meager his abilities were, they’d never trust him as their protector. Thus the rockwizard was largely treated as an irrelevant oddity, and those that did not ignore him quickly learned to do so after he began asking them about the history of the quarry.

The other resident of the keep, master farmer Kaid, was an overworked boulder of a man who was perpetually sweating, and turned to excessive drink as soon as his duties were done (or sometimes before). The man dabbled in some sleight-of-hand, and was forever trying to accost Ulliem so that they could swap “secrets of the trade”. Between avoiding Kaid and avoiding Ralten, who managed to irritate him more with every affectation, the rockwizard spent much of time in the forge.

The blacksmith gave no signs of annoyance at Ulliem’s presence, even though the quarters were close and hot; but then again, Mungar never gave many signs about anything. Ulliem had heard somewhere that the smith had been pressed into service for the War of Two-Dozen Dowries, and didn’t return quite the same as he had left. Still, Mungar was the closest thing to another craftsman in the town, and so Ulliem did much of his carving in the forge, to the ringing of hammer blows and the roaring of bellows.

It was during one such night, just shy of two months after the rockwizard’s arrival, that Mungar finally acknowledged his presence. Taking a break from the anvil, the smith deftly sliced an apple in two with a knife at his belt, and proffered one half to Ulliem, who took the gesture as an opening.

“I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but do you know anything of the circumstances of Thealenne’s adoption?” Ulliem asked innocently as he took the fruit.

The blacksmith blanketed him with a probing stare before answering.

“One of the copse-kin came through seven or eight years ago,” Mungar said, ”offering barkcloths and grow-all tinctures of the kind folk don’t trust much around here. Come morning the peddler was gone, leaving a cold firepit and a quiet baby in a willow-bough basket.”

Ulleim nodded to himself, as if confirming a prior suspicion. “And the quarry,” he went on, taking advantage of the smith’s unusual openness, “Binnyei Inyei? Benee Nee? When did the mining stop?”

There was an almost imperceptible tightening around Mungar’s eyes…the rockwizard might have imagined it… and then the smith answered slowly. “Long time ago, centuries maybe, this was a quarry town. Baine Enielle they say folk round here once called it…Lenorra used the name from time to time, though I don’t know the origin.” Pulling a broken plough-blade from the fire, Mungar stared at the glowing iron, as if planning his attack with the heavy hammer gripped by one large hand. “Folks don’t use any name for it much these days. All mining stopped after the slide, and it’s been nought but a grim reminder in the scores of years since.”

“The slide?” Ulliem asked, but apparently the smith had decided the conversation was done, for the hammer rose and fell, spraying fountains of sparks into the air, and Mungar was silent.

The rockwizard wandered slowly back to his room, mulling his thoughts with care. He had a hard time reading Mungar, and tried to wrack his memory for details about the War of Two-Dozen Dowries, a whimsical name for a brutally short, vicious affair. There had been rumors of atrocities committed for the sake of greed, he recalled, and blood that continued to drip long after the combatants had supposedly sheathed their swords.

Reaching deep into a pocket, Ulliem fingered a small piece of the rare sandstone absently. It was surprisingly warm, and for a odd moment Ulliem thought he could hear muffled singing, until he realized he was by the cupboard under the stairs where Ralten’s children hid when they were in trouble with their father, which was often. Recognizing the melody, the old rockwizard pressed his ear to the rough wood.

“Rise Up Quarrymen! Quarrymen Arise!

Fetch pickaxe and lampoil. To Work! To Toil!

‘neath heavy stone embrace, we mine.”

Ulliem found himself humming along to the tune, realizing that it was the same song that Thea often sang without the words. His accompaniment gave him away, however, and there was a startled silence inside the cupboard, before the door creaked open and a timid pair of brown eyes peeked out.

“Whaddaya doin’?” the eyes asked, narrowing suspiciously.

“Why, I was just try to catch a listen of that fine song there, sung so well,” Ulliem answered warmly, trying to coax Ralten’s youngest boy out into the open. “Where did you learn the tune?”

The eyes widened a bit at the praise, and a freckled nose emerged as well. “I heard Tob and Gindel singin’ it,” the boy answered, naming two of Ralten’s older children. “They say you only learn it when you turn from a boy to a man like they have, so I’m practicin’.” There was a pause, and the nose withdrew. “We’re not s’ppose to let grownups hear it.”

Ulliem smiled at the contradiction. “Well I’m a wizard, not a grown-up, so you can sing it for me,” he reassured the eyes, but they disappeared as well, closing the cupboard door after them. The rockwizard waited for a moment, but his only companion was silence.

When Ulliem returned to his room, he reached under the bed and pulled out his satchel, probing around inside it until he found the querybook. Magically linked to the massive Guild library, the querybook was an invaluable source of information. The trouble was, you had to wait for a scribe to processes your inquiry, and the rockwizard had been waiting nearly three weeks.

Opening the querybook hopefully, Ulliem saw the sketched outline of a golden quill in the upper left corner of the first blank page, and smiled in excitement. Grabbing his own quill, he hastily scrawled “Baine Enielle – or – Quarry of Dern”. He sat back on his bed waiting for the far-away scribe to notice. After a few minutes, neatly penned letters appeared on the page, listing a half-dozen books. He circled one, and there was a pause as the scribe cast whatever spell was necessary to summon the volume from the quite extensive shelves of the library. Then the querrybook fluttered slightly, ink draining from its pages, only to be refilled as if another book had been cast as a die and stamped onto the paper.

The rockwizard perused various texts until the candles burned low, and the golden quill started to fade, indicating that his time was up. Unfortunately, many of the accounts made only brief references to the quarry, but Ulliem managed to piece together that Dern had once been fairly prosperous on its account. The Sultans of Heur had bought the unique stone for their most ornate monuments and palaces, up until some sort of accident almost two centuries ago.

Ulliem let the candle exhaust itself with a wisp of smoke, lying back on his cot in the ensuing darkness.

“Why would they close such a lucrative quarry?” He mused aloud. There was always demand for colored stone among masons and sculptors, and men risked their lives daily to excavate far less vibrant hues. “It’s a dangerous business, quarrying. Accidents happen,” Ulliem muttered softly, his breathing becoming regular, tired old limbs leaden. “Regrettable of course, but no reason to deny the world such luscious stone. And those pillars! Strange spells, and secretive villagers…” His last thought before falling into a deep sleep was that many accounts had mentioned a memorial on top of Dern hill.

The next morning Ulliem headed east, up the slope of the hill behind the keep. Quickly steepening, the path struggled to pick its way through outcrops that became more frequent, and the rockwizard skinned both knees and an elbow scrambling over boulders. When the path faded away Ulliem halted, dabbing at the bleeding elbow, his breathing labored. He had climbed perhaps a thousand feet in elevation, but now a nearly-sheer cliff face presented itself to him, mocking his final attempt at reaching the crown.

There was no sign of a shrine, but Ulliem felt the need to conquer the summit anyway after how far he’d come. Glaring at the offensive stone barrier, Ulliem began stomping around the crest, looking for another way up.

The cliffs seemed to completely encircle the summit of the hill like an impregnable stone helmet, and Ulliem was about to give up when he noticed a narrow cleft in the rock. Hiking closer, the rockwizard found a set of steps, wide enough for the shoulders of two men.

The crown of the hill was an impossibly flat plateau, as if a knife blade had sliced off the peak to create a level surface for the memorial in the center. A low semicircular wall embraced the shrine, made of crimson blocks joined together so deftly that Ulliem was hard-pressed to find the seam with probing fingers. The wall cradled a cracked sandstone column, capped by a huge ball of quartz that Ulliem was surprised had resisted the ever-seeking fingers of thieves.

At the base of the column were two waist-high statuettes of kneeling men, so red that it seemed is if their touch might leave a stain. By their garb and gear Ulliem could see that they were meant to be quarrymen, but though their arms were arranged as if to grasp some tool, the minutely carved stone hands were empty. His mind whispered something familiar to him, but the rockwizard was tired from the arduous climb, and his old memory could not quite make the connection. The column itself was twined with runes, and the air seemed thicker, full of powerful magic – the kind of magic that cradled men’s souls.

“My, my, what have we here,” the rockwizard breathed in amazement, approaching the shrine carefully. A rectangular portion of the pillar had been sanded smooth, clear of runes, and at the top Ulliem recognized the crest of Val’Thul, a past guildmaster of stonecraft. Ulliem vaguely remembered from the yards of youthfully memorized lineage that Val’Thul had held office around the time of the alleged quarry accident, and that he had disappeared mysteriously. Below the crest a poem was inscribed:

O’er bracken and scree, through crook and cleft,

The Quarrymen march true

Grinding, rolling, relentless, they boldly live anew

But when the rose’s hastened bloom grows bare,

Petals fallow in the fields will lie

And the Quarrymen, ever marching, the Quarrymen will die

The column had fractured, as if the quartz were somehow too heavy for thick stone, and Ulliem couldn’t tell if there had been more verses to the poem. He did not examine it further, however, for the sun was quite high overhead and the descent would be treacherous enough without darkness to hide his path.

Climbing back down towards Dern, Ulliem’s thoughts were a turmoil of curiosity. Staring at the ground in front of him, pondering various wild theories, the rockwizard noted absently that his descent was shadowing the tracks of some wild animal. It was a strange imprint, three splayed lines that looked as if they had been cut rather than impressed. Scrambling down a boulder, Ulliem observed that the tracks continued right over the stone, slicing into the rock as if it were just more packed earth.

The blood in his veins turned to ice. ‘…razor sharp claws that do not slow for steel or stone,’ he remembered reading in the Mage Guild summons. Clutching his chest, Ulliem could feel his heart beating uncomfortably fast. Abandoning caution, he raced down the rest of the path, miraculously avoiding a fall, and didn’t stop running until he reached the mayor’s quarters in the keep and fell heavily into a chair in front of a surprised Ralten.

The acting mayor looked over Ulliem’s torn clothing and bedraggled condition with disdain before returning to his papers, waiting for the rockwizard to catch his breath.

“Fiends! Tracks in the hills!” Ulliem choked out finally, clutching the armrests while struggling to rise to his feet.

The acting mayor sniffed dismissively, not even bothering to glance up. “I’ve warned you already wizard,” Ralten admonished. “We don’t need this kind of fearmongering around here. I’ll thank you not to bring Mage Guild troubles to our doorstep.”

“You fool!” Ulliem exploded, all of his pent-up anger at the man suddenly giving him the strength to stand. “You pompous imbecile! These demons are more than trouble. They could be doom for all mankind! We need to get the villagers somewhere at least remotely defensible – the keep, or up on the plateau where the narrow stairs can be stoutly held.”

Ralten had been initially taken aback by the rockwizard’s outburst, but quickly found his own anger, rising amidst an avalanche of paper. “You trespassed on our sacred ground?” he accused hotly. “You have no business there. That shrine is for the citizens of Dern to mourn their ancestry, to pray to those spirits that watch over us and protect us. Have you no decency?”

“Deceny?” Ulliem screeched, waving an arm in the air wildly. “Everything around you is a breath from ruin, and you speak of decency? I have seen the signs with my own…”

“You have seen the signs?” Ralten interrupted coolly, his anger back under control. “And what, prey tell, do you know of such things” – the acting mayor paused scornfully – “rockwizard?” Ralten plucked a sheet deftly from amongst the scattered pile of papers. “I reached out to an acquaintance in Lastrania, and looked up your status with the Mage Guild. You’re barely more than a sculptor, Ulliem. What do you know of such things?”

The rockwizard felt doubt creep into his stomach like a slithering worm. The light had been failing…could he have imagined it? He opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

“Now then, I’m sure some wild animal gave you quite a fright in the twilight,” Ralten went on patronizingly. “Mungar will go take a look for tracks in the morning, and if there is something dangerous about, you can help us take appropriate measures. How does that sound?”

Ulliem drew himself up, suddenly almost too tall for the room. Leveling his arm at Ralten’s chest, he spoke in a voice much younger than his years. “Have a care, Ralten son of Lenorra, for the horrors of myth are at hand. See that ye tend to thy kin and thy charges, lest all come to slaughter.” Whirling quickly, the rockwizard stormed out of the room.

Instead of heading back to his cot, Ulliem marched out to the keep’s gate, closing and barring it laboriously while Ralten came outside and looked on in exasperation. Climbing the uneven steps to the walltop, the rockwizard planted his feet firmly, pulling his cloak about him to stave off the chill air. His gaze was directed intently east, but even though a half-moon shone down, Ulliem saw nothing but grass, rock, and tree.

Grim doubt crept into his mind, for what did he really know about the fiends? They were demonic creatures that used to ravage the ancient world, feeding on terror and superstition, but accounts of their true nature or source were few and mostly conjecture. Not even the guildmasters knew entirely what to expect, their summons having only included a few cryptically prophetic warnings taken from ancient songs and rhymes.

Eventually exhaustion overwhelmed Ulliem, and he stumbled back to his cot, falling into a defeated sleep.

In the morning, Ralten sent Mungar to the hilltop with the rockwizard, as promised, but though the smith scoured the ground intently, there was no sign of the demon tracks. When they returned empty-handed, the smugness in Ralten’s eyes was almost more than Ulliem could bear.

#

For the next week the rockwizard traced every inch of the hillside, but never found any more tracks or signs. At night he obsessed over the querybook, using what remained of his money to buy a priority inquiry and bypass the wait for a free scribe. Pouring over all the fiend-related spellbooks he was allowed access to, Ulliem tried to learn incantations or enchantments that might be of help. Thea came by once or twice, looking to play music, but in his studious fervor he sent her away. To his dismay, however, all the spells proved too advanced for his skill, and he despaired of being able to do anything to help the town.

More days passed, and though there were no further signs forthcoming, Ulliem slipped into a deep depression. Either there were fiends about, and he was too feeble to detect or challenge them with magic, or he had imagined the tracks, in which case he was too old and senile to be of use – hardly better.  On the last night before his priority inquiry expired, Ulliem tried to distract himself, scribbling the words “Val’Thul – and – memoirs” into the querybook. The wait was agonizingly long, and then instead of the usual listing of results, a direct note from the attending scribe appeared:

The volume you requested is classified as ‘Guild Sensitive’ and requires a passphrase specified by the author.

Ulliem pulled the candle closer, hunching over the querybook in excitement. After a moment’s thought, he wrote the only phrase he could think of: “Baine Enielle”.

Chewing on the end of his quill, Ulliem waited anxiously, his hope starting to fade. Then a single page stamped itself into the querybook.

The Confession of Val’Thul

A great weight lies on me, and I do not think I shall be able to carry on without relief. It concerns the good people of Dern, who have always sold me their unique and beautiful stone at a fair price.

It was with some concern for the integrity of his quarry that the master mason of Dern wrote to me, for he was receiving pressure from the Sultans of Heur to produce stone at a greater rate. Gladly offering my assistance, I booked travel to the distant town, but was intercepted by a Heuric seneschal, who promised vast donations to the guildhall if my evaluation of the quarry’s integrity should be favorable.

It will be my eternal shame to admit that for the duration of the inspection, I could think of little else but the number of new journeymen who could be fed with Heuric gold. Thankfully I will never know exactly by how much greed blinded me, for if it were certain that I could have prevented the catastrophe, my already-tortured soul could not bear the guilt.

About a week after my return, I received news of the rockslide that had killed more than half the men of Dern, and I immediately set forth.

A fog of hatred and grief darkened the village, and I could feel the souls of the perished quarrymen still floating in the nether, refusing to leave. Their anger burned fiercely towards the Heuric seneschals, already arrived to re-open the quarry, but also hottly towards me, their trusted advisor who had failed his charge.

With penitent resolve, I have decided on the only course of absolution. I will bind the lost souls of Dern to the Baine Enielle as I name it, Mason’s Ruin. The quarrymen shall keep their lavish stone, and Dern will be abused no more on its account.

If ever there is need of the bold quarrymen again, I shall place twin keys readily at hand, to avert new danger in atonement for that which I failed to prevent.

Ulliem sat back and massaged his temples, trying to process everything he’d read. After a moment he quickly reached for the querybook, writing: “Binding rhyme –or– Poetry forms used in binding enchantment”. A lonely entry appeared, and Ulliem circled it quickly, the words materializing on the page.

The Apprentice’s Encyclopedia of Enchantment: Binder’s Couplet

Aside from the keys to a binding, other factors (see entry on binding factors) can be worked into the enchantment. A binder skilled in his or her craft will often use something familiar to enhance the potency of the spell, but the benefit is lost if the factor used is forgotten. In order to keep track of a factor paired with a particular binding, a wizard will often compose a poem known as a binder’s couplet. The traditional couplet fills three verses.

Before Ulliem could jot down any more inquiries, the golden quill faded from the querybook. “So there is more to the poem,” he mused out loud, repeating the two verses from the memorial pillar to himself.

A squeak of poorly oiled metal-on-metal made Ulliem look up, and he saw that Lenorra had wheeled herself to his doorway. The ancient woman’s lips were moving, but no sound came out.

“Lenorra,” the rockwizard greeted her, “do you know the ending to this poem?” He tried to catch her eyes, but was met only with a vacant stare and silently dancing lips. After a moment, she wheeled herself on down the hallway, and Ulliem was left to try to sleep.

The rockwizard awoke to the sight of Thealenne waiting patiently beside him, her face uncharacteristically mournful.

“What seems to be the matter Thea Wheatrider?” he asked tenderly. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy of late. An old man’s mind can play tricks on him sometimes.”

Thea shook her head sadly. “It’s not that,” she said. “Today’s the day the wheat stops singing.”

Ulliem nodded solemnly, tightening the yellow bow around Thea’s waist. “Would you care to accompany me to the harvest festival, noble lady?” he inquired. “We can give the wheat a proper farewell.”

Thea nodded three times, and they walked hand in hand down towards the village well. There they found all the farmers of Dern already gathered, split into groups, and taunts and jibes about who would harvest more wheat flew through the air. Ralten was there too, decked out in his most ostentatious baubles, and all that remained was for master farmer Kaid to arrive and commence the competition.

The morning dragged on, and still there was no sign of Kaid. A few jests were shouted out about how he had probably fallen into the well in search of more mead, but soon the jests turned to angry muttering at the delay. Ralten was clearly infuriated, and dispatched Munger to go find the missing drunk. After about an hour the smith returned, impassive as ever, but when he leaned in to whisper into Ralten’s ear, the acting mayor’s face went white.

Telling Thea to stay put, Ulliem hurriedly made his way over to Ralten’s side. “Tell me what happened,” he demanded in a loud whisper, but the man seemed to be in shock, and it was Mungar who answered.

“I found Kaid up the hill, dead, cuts all over. There were… animal… tracks around his body, lots of them, and fresh.”

Ulliem felt his body numb, the fear attempting to paralyze him. ‘…when daylight no longer deters, when the taste of blood is renewed, settle your affairs, for you have but till nightfall in this good life,’ the Mage Guild summons had warned. A strange calm settled over the rockwizard, and he felt suddenly alert and focused, as the danger he had been dreading finally arrived.

“Ralten, order everyone into the keep. We’ll have the best chance of holding off the fiends there,” Ulliem commanded, but the acting mayor snapped out of his daze.

“You have no proof that…”

“A man is dead,” Ulliem interrupted hotly. “Whatever the cause, you need to protect your people.”

Ralten glared at him, but then nodded reluctantly. The rockwizard hastened back over to Thealenne, forming the seeds of a desperate plan.

“Thea, I need help with something, and I think you are the only one who will listen,” he told her honestly. “It’s very, very important. Will you help me?”

She nodded, her eyes wide.

The crowd of villagers was fidgeting uneasily, slowly growing aware that something was wrong. Ralten started to address them, and the Ulliem and Thea slipped away unnoticed.

The climb up the hill passed in a nervous blur for Ulliem, his eyes scanning every rustling stand of oak, never keeping his back towards the same direction for long. Though calm at first, Thea soon picked up on the tension in the air. The closer they got to the peak, the more agitated she became, until at last she stopped at the foot of the hidden stairs, clamping her hands over her ears.

“I don’t want to go up,” she screamed, as if to overcome some tumultuous racket beyond the rockwizard’s hearing. “The spirits are singing angry songs.” Tears traced their way down her cheeks.

Ulliem knelt down in front of her, wiping her eyes and placing his callused, wrinkled hands over hers, drawing them slowly away from her ears. “Are they singing about you?” he asked gently.

She shook her head quickly from side to side, strawberry-blonde hair flying.

“And do they want to help the people of Dern?”

Thea nodded, calmer in her movements this time.

“Then can you endure a little hurt to help our friends? To keep all of Dern singing?”

Her lips pursed and her brown knit bravely, and then she nodded once more.

The quarrymen statuettes were light, but awkwardly shaped. Ulliem would have been hard-pressed to make the tricky descent back to the keep carrying both, and he doubted there would be time for another trip. Urging Thea on as they went, the rockwizard prayed silently that the sandstone wouldn’t chip as she dragged the figurine behind her down the hill.

They reached the keep with the last of the villagers, many of whom were still carrying harvesting tools uncertainly. Ulliem grabbed Thea’s hand, pulling her through the crowd in the overstuffed courtyard, mounting the steps to the western walltop as quickly as she could go. The rockwizard placed the figurines on the uneven stone, hearing the gate being closed and barred beneath them as he did. He was relieved to see that there was no permanent damage to the statuettes, but the relief was brief as a scream sounded from the throng of villagers below, and then another.

A roiling tide was cresting the hilltop, parting around the cliffs before rejoining in a sea of limbs the color of bile, climbing over each other like a mass of caged crab. The fiends themselves were like nothing on this earth, but familiar, as if the most vile creations of nature had been turned inside out and jumbled into oozing masses. In the courtyard below, villagers were milling about in terror, a few fainting, and many others vomiting into the dirt. Ralten stood on the eastern wall, half-turned, his eyes bulging.

Ulliem fought to keep hold of his own stomach, the waves of panic and revulsion that emanated from below threatening to overwhelm him. Focusing on the seated form of Lenorra, a lonely rock in the chaos, he breathed deeply, reaching out a hand to Thea who was trembling beside him. When her small fingers grasped his, he felt a momentary surge of hope, and muttered a prayer to gods he had never really believed in.

Chanting a poorly-remembered spell, the rockwizard touched the nearest statuette. “I release you, souls of Dern, to protect your progeny,” he shouted. There was a flare of light, and a muffled boom. Ulliem felt bones in his arm snap as he was knocked flat, but the miniature quarrymen did not move.

Hearing the blast, Ralten spun, quickly taking in the prone rockwizard and the crimson statuettes. The terror that threatened to overwhem his sanity found an outlet in fury, and he raised a shaking arm to point at Ulliem.

“You!” he screamed, cutting through the horrified moans of the villagers below. “You have vandalized our sacred land, angered the spirits that protect us. Who will be our deliverance now? You have doomed us!”

People began to look up from the courtyard, and other angry, desperate voices soon joined Ralten’s.

“The wizard has desecrated our shrine! He has brought this horror down on us!”

“Cast out the wizard. Appease the demons while there is still time!”

Ears still ringing, Ulliem gripped a crenellation with his good hand, doggedly hauling himself to his feet. If they turned on him now, blindly following Ralten’s idiocy, he couldn’t save them, couldn’t save her. To his left, he saw that Thea had pressed her back to the battlements, hands over her ears and eyes closed, but thankfully unharmed. Raising his own arm, Ulliem summoned as strong a voice as he could manage.

“This man you trusted, this arrogant popinjay, has kept from you the most perilous event any of us will live to see. The Seal of Myth has broken, releasing nightmare to appear at any time and suck us down into the abyss.”

A few of the more educated villagers went white, comprehending at last what was happening.

“Blessed spirits! The fiends, the fiends are loose,” someone moaned, but most were looking about in confusion, never having been taught the history of the world, still believing that demons were the stuff of legend and nightmare.

“Enough!” Ralten bellowed in fury, smacking stone with his open hand. “All that matters now is that you have destroyed any chance for our salvation.” He started working his way around the walltop, shouting down to the smith. “Mungar, stop him! Seize our sacred relics!”

The large man pushed his way through the crowd easily and started to climb the steps, but Ulliem was ready.

“Remember, soldier, the last time you obeyed orders without question,” he barked in his best impression of a sergeant’s rough voce. “Remember the war and sins you committed for an unworthy master. You have the chance now for absolution.”

Mungar froze, foot raised to the next step, and then began to tremble. The large hammer was suddenly in the smith’s hand, his eyes on fire, and for a moment Ulliem was afraid that he might have unleashed a demon of his own. But then as if an enchantment were dispelled, the smith’s body loosed, and the hammer fell.

Screeching in rage, Ralten was approaching quickly, still fixated on the statuettes. “Give them to me Wizard! Defiler! Give me the keys to our salvation.”

KEYS! Ulliem’s mind raced. ‘I shall place the twin keys readily at hand,’ Val’thul had said. He looked down at the two statuettes. He’d assumed that they were the keys themselves… but those outstretched hands, meant to hold some missing tool… Finally he made the connection, and his gaze slowly rose, looking northwest to the Baine Enielle and the two sentry pillars. “The pickaxes, one on each pillar…I missed it, an old fool!” Ulliem gasped, falling to his knees as hope drained.

The tide of fiends was halfway down the hill, hundreds, maybe thousands, the clicking of their claws on stone just becoming audible. There was simply not enough time.

A gentle tug on his sleeve broke the spell of despair.

“I can get them Sir Ully. I can ride the wheat.”

Ulliem looked down at Thea, his eyes suddenly watering at her bravery. “You know the danger, little Wheatrider? Fiends have no melody, and the cuts from their claws cannot be stitched.”

She smiled, pushing the horror away a little. “I’m the only one,” Thea answered simply.

Grabbing the girl by the waist, Ulliem stood and lifted her carefully to the edge of the battlements. She began to sing, a golden song full of rich earth, sunshine, and soft rain. There were horrified gasps from the courtyard below, and the rockwizard suddenly felt hands gripping his shoulders painfully.

Looking back with one last radiant smile, Thea stepped over the edge, and was gone.

“What have you DONE!” Ralten screamed into the rockwizard’s ear. He threw Ulliem to the ground and rushed to the wall’s edge, falling to his knees in shock.

The old rockwizard landed awkwardly, his injured arm failing under him, and his head bounced off stone, the world spinning. He fought the haze grimly, pushing himself up on one elbow and gazing down in trepidation.

Thea was almost a speck already, sitting cross-legged as tall stalks of wheat bent and straightened under her, carrying her swiftly and safely in an undulating wave.

Strong hands were thrust under Ulliem’s arms lifting him up, and the smell of leather and iron filled his nostrils. “How is this possible?” Mungar asked, his voice tinged with awe.

“She is a shaman of the Hathalsea,” Ulliem answered groggily, “the copse-kin as you call them. The songs of all living things are in her heart, and they love and obey her for it.” The rockwizard almost laughed aloud in relief and joy.

But it was short-lived, for with a crash the tide of fiends finally broke around the keep, circling madly. A gusting wind arose, seemingly from every direction at once, clawing at clothes and eyes, and carrying gruesome shrieks.

“What can we do?” The smith shouted over the gale.

“Get everyone on the wall. Use shovels, scythes, whatever you can find to hold them off as long as you can,” Ulliem shouted back, but his voice was tinged with hopelessness. He imagined Thea prying the stone pickaxes loose from the pillars, turning to carry them back, but she was cut off. “Get away,” he whispered under his breath. “Run and live for all of us.”

The sickening howls stopped as quickly as they had begun, followed by a silence that was the most terrifying of all, for it felt as if it were slowly compressing around them, pushed tighter and closer by encroaching horror. Faintly below, the clicking of claw on stone tapped a petrifying beat.

Then Mungar was shouting orders, and the villagers were slowly roused, obeying in a frightened daze. Still gripping farm implements in white-knuckled hands, men and women rushed to the wall-tops. Razor-tipped arms began to grope over the crenellations, some spidery or reptilian, others nauseatingly close to human. With a ragged battle cry, the people of Dern engaged the fiends, pushing ghastly bodies from the walls with thresher and scythe. Mungar was everywhere, bleeding from a dozen cuts, his hammer a blur as he smashed deadly appendages into useless lumps of murky ochre ooze.

Several farmers went down, rent with bloody gashes, but the wave of fiends slowed. There was the beginning of a cheer, but it was swept away by a sound like the ringing of a gong. The walls began to hum and shake, loose stones falling out and landing below with a clatter, and the cheer turned to shouts of alarm. It would not take much to bring the weak masonry tumbling down beneath their feet.

Hoping against reason, Ulliem looked west once more. Thea was closing in, riding a mass of wheat that tore itself up by the roots in its effort to speed her journey. But she was headed straight for the mass of fiends, towards rending death. A mournful trill drifted through the air, and then the wheat exploded in a puff of stalk and chaff, sending Thealenne flying though the air above the thirsty claws far below, and Ulliem’s heart hurdling into his throat.

She landed in the arms of an astonished Mungar, bowling the smith over, but both seemed unhurt. Thea was on her feet slowly, exhausted.

Running over to her, Ullliem hugged her small frame, tears falling freely. “You are a precious one, little Thea,” he murmured into her hair. Seizing the stone pickaxes from her arms, Ulliem took two long strides to the crimson statuettes, still kneeling peacefully among the carnage. He placed a pickaxe in each quarryman’s grasp, twisting them until there was a soft click. Stepping back hurriedly, he reached for Thea’s hand, and the two of them gazed west and north, nervous breath held amidst a sudden stillness, the rockwizard and the wheatrider.

With a thunderous boom, red boulders poured out of the Baine Einelle, tumbling through the twin pillars like whitewater from a sluice-gate. As they rumbled and rolled closer, shapes formed, the pebbly outlines of strong men twirling pickaxes.

Dropping from the walls, the fiends turned towards the avalanche, skittering from side to side. Another gong-like sound stretched the air, and the walls stopped shaking.

Instead the quarrymen slowed, losing momentum. The tide of rock reached the wheatfields below Dern, unfurling like the petals of a rose, but still slowing, stretching thin and bare.

There was the sound of another gong, and the mass of fiends surged forward, stopped short, and then again, and again.  Each time more of the quarrymen collapsed into lifeless heaps of rock, the march all but halting.

Ulliem looked down at the statuettes, seeing tiny fractures spreading across the surface, and Thea clenched his hand in fear. The spell was not strong enough to save them from the demons of nightmare. In final desperation, he began to chant the binder’s couplet, hoping that even incomplete, it might boost the spell.

“O’er bracken and scree, through crook and cleft

The Quarrymen march true

Grinding, rolling, relentless, they boldly live anew” he recited. But it was another voice that spoke the second verse.

“But when the rose’s hastened bloom grows bare

Petals fallow in the fields will lie

And the Quarrymen, ever marching, the Quarrymen will die”

Confused, Ulliem paused. Was it working? Was the stone answering him? But the other voice did not pause with him. The rockwizard spotted Lenorra in the courtyard below, standing from her chair and finishing the third verse in a musical tone.

“But warm the song: ‘Rise Up Quarrymen!’

Quarrymen with hands so deft

Enemy, face them if you dare” the old mayor paused, but there was no effect, the piles of sandstone in the fields lay still.

Then she raised her voice in a haunting melody, starting mournfully but gathering speed and energy as it went.

“Rise Up Quarrymen! Quarrymen Arise!

Fetch pickaxe and lampoil. To Work! To Toil!

‘neath heavy stone embrace, we mine.”

Realization dawned on Ulliem, and he shouted to the villagers: “Sing! Sing! Strengthen your protectors!”

In the courtyard below, young boys and girls looked at each other, still terrified, but hesitantly added their voices to the mixture.

“Rise Up Quarrymen! Quarrymen Arise!

Fetch caution and courage. Drink your mead! Eat your porridge!

‘neath looming crush, silent dark, sharp threat of death we earn our keep.”

There was a stirring in the fields, as piles of crimson rock began to quake. But it was not yet enough.

“Sing now, sons and daughters of Dern!” Ulliem tried again, feeling the last of his strength go out with his words. “Remember the song learned far from the ears of disapproving elders. Remember the stone and axe forgotten for the pain of loss, and let the quarry song ring out once more in the Baine Enielle!”

One by one, the farmers of Dern found their voices, for a melody learned nestles deep, and is not oft forgot.

“Drink your mead! Eat your porridge! This warm hearth visit might be your last.

For we risk life and limb, to fill family coffers to the brim,

to build the halls of lordly dreams and walls against the fiends.”

The ochre mass of fiends built itself upward, frothing and shrieking, but unable to drown out the voices of Dern as they joined for the concluding refrain in thundering unison.

“Rise Up Quarrymen! QUARRYMEN ARISE!”

There was a deep groan, as if the earth itself heard their song, and then the refrain echoed back in an impossibly deep baritone.

“Rise Up Quarrymen! QUARRYMEN ARISE!”

Geysers of sandstone shot into the air, human forms reshaping in their midst, surging up the hill towards the keep.

With one last piercing howl, the fiends let loose, flowing down to meet them.

The two waves, red and yellow, met with a crush and shattering.

Ulliem felt suddenly dizzy, his vision blurring as he gripped the wall for support. Reaching to touch the bump where his head had smashed into stone, the old rockwizard’s hands came away sticky. As the world faded, he heard the demonic shrieks become more frenzied and desperate, slowly drowned out by the relentless grinding of good strong stone, and then everything went dark.

#

Ulliem awoke to the face he least wanted to see, Ralten’s, looking awkwardly ashamed. Everything seemed slightly blurred to the rockwizard, as if time had snuck ahead without him and his mind was struggling to catch up. He tried to speak, but his tongue had no energy.

Ralten noticed the slight movement, and broke into a smile that was both relieved and contrite. “Ah, you are awake,” he said. “Don’t try to move. Keep your strength.” He attempted to mop Ulliem’s brow clumsily, dripping water in the rockwizard’s ear. “Mungar has some skill with battlefield medicine, but a guild healer from Lastrania will be arriving tomorrow to tend properly to you and the rest of the wounded…” Ralten kept on speaking, but the words seemed to grow smaller and fainter.

Ulliem’s vision began to fade, and with a laborious sigh he slipped back into unconsciousness. Clawing fiends scuttled in and out of his dreams, keeping him from rest. Sometimes the quarrymen would march through in a wide column, sweeping away the horrors, but always they would return, as if seeping from some invisible rift.

The next time he awoke, it was to a melodious song and the much more welcome face of Thealenne. The two beamed at each other, the rockwizard and the wheatrider, holding hands as Thea sang, and when Ulliem slept again his dreams were much sweeter.

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