C.M. Simpson's Blog, page 89
July 2, 2019
Wednesday's Verse - City Traffic
This week’s verse moves from a verse about a terrorist incident way back in 2004 to another piece of social commentary about mankind's future. It is taken from
366 Days of Poetry
, a collection of mixed-genre poetry released in 2016.
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City Traffic
Traffic
thunder rumbles,
roars, surges like the tides.
In every city,
it forms the background
noise of where we strive,
of where we live, and work, and play,
of every moment of our lives.
Tell me, when the traffic stops,will mankind still survive?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------You can find the first two poetry collections at the links below - although there are plans to reissue them with more genre-appropriate covers in the future. The third collection will be released later in the year.
books2read.com/u/mVLQZb
books2read.com/u/bxgyLd
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
City Traffic
Traffic
thunder rumbles,
roars, surges like the tides.
In every city,
it forms the background
noise of where we strive,
of where we live, and work, and play,
of every moment of our lives.
Tell me, when the traffic stops,will mankind still survive?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------You can find the first two poetry collections at the links below - although there are plans to reissue them with more genre-appropriate covers in the future. The third collection will be released later in the year.
books2read.com/u/mVLQZb
books2read.com/u/bxgyLd
July 1, 2019
Tuesday's Short - Magick on the Forest's Edge
This week’s short story takes us from a fantasy tale of one very lucky servant to the fantasy world of Tallameera where two siblings discover their magic to save a dying fairy. Welcome to
Magick on the Forest's Edge.
Forced to flee with her village, priestly apprentice, Althessa, discovers that danger comes in many guises and salvation is often unexpected. When their undead pursuers are slain by an unknown force, Althessa assists her mistress in consecrating their remains to ensure they cannot return from the dead, yet again. But magick calls from a nearby forest, and another life is in danger. One of those responsible for bringing down their pursuers is balanced on the edge of death. With the priests too busy to assist, and only her wizardly brother to assist, can she perform the healing required, or will the attempt bring death to all who dare it?Magick on the Forest's Edge
They were three weeks into their flight before the forest came into view. It had been hard, moving an entire village with little more than a night’s notice, harder still to avoid the undead warriors pursuing them. Winter was drawing perilously near. It meant respite from the endless pursuit, but certain destruction if shelter for the season wasn’t found.
Althessa was wakened by Rowany, her mentor and priestess to Beresia. Having slept the day, they hurried to receive the evening meal Althessa’s mother, Mallee, and the other village women had prepared.
It was bread, cold mutton, and cheese, again, but no one minded enough to complain. The food was filling and took little time to prepare and consume. Time took precedence over even the smallest of matters in their flight, and the laird had promised a change to their diet as soon as they were free of Escarlion’s borders, and the creatures on their trail.
Once they’d eaten, Rowany took Althessa to join the other priests in their evening supplications. Tonight their prayers would call the starlight and the snow breezes; one to guide them, the others to cover their tracks.
Althessa rejoiced in the prayers. She could feel herself growing in Beresia’s favor and power each time she communed with the goddess. She reveled in the goddess’s pleasure, rejoicing in the service she had found.
Even the king’s prejudice against the priesthoods could not spoil her joy. Althessa lifted her voice and blended it with the prayers of the other priests, calling the goddess’s attention to the villagers’ need once more. And, once more, Althessa felt the gods answer in chorus and her eyes filling with tears of joy at their reply.
She saw the intensity of her feelings reflected in the faces of the other priests. All had had felt the comfort of their gods, before, but this chorus of gods was something still new to them, and they treasured it.
The starlight shone around them, gilding the coming night in silver. Althessa stared in wonder. Around her, the same wonder touched all the villagers’ faces, as they arranged themselves in the marching order dictated by their laird. Tonight they would reach the forest’s edge, and safety.
Later that evening, when the meal was over and the fullness of night had come, the villagers left the copse on the hill, descending to travel along the valley floor. The going was easier at the foot of the valley, and they were less likely to be seen from a distance.
The breezes summoned by the priests divided. Half twirled on ahead, clearing a path through the deep drifts left by the day’s snowfall. The other half pushed the snow back into place behind them.
They would reach the forest before dawn.
Althessa stumbled beside her mistress and felt Rowany’s hand on her arm, steadying her. The low path seemed to go on forever. Althessa sighed, forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other.
When Rowany stopped beside her, Althessa stopped, also, and wondered if she would be able to gather the energy to start walking again. The stench of something burnt, or dead, fouled the air.
Althessa lifted her head. Something dead? Her gaze sought Rowany’s face and she saw that it had grown as still as a mask. The laird was speaking.
Now Althessa understood the stillness in Rowany’s face. Her mistress was listening to the laird, using magic to gather words too far away to hear. Well, she could do that too. Althessa drew a little of the goddess’s power and formed it into a carrier of sound. The laird was at the front of the villagers. He had insisted on leading them, as always. Rowany and Althessa were somewhere in the middle.
Althessa reached out with the listening power, and caught the laird’s words with it.
“...go and see what makes that stench,” the laird was saying.
“Yes, sir.”
“Yessir.”
Althessa stifled a gasp of protest as she recognized Neia and Taloc’s voices. She could not bear to think of losing them so soon after they had come home.
She heard the thud hoofbeats, as her sister and future brother-in-law wheeled their horses and rode away. Althessa withdrew the power. The laird would say no more until his scouts returned. At his signal, she settled down to wait with the other villages. Pre-dawn stillness closed around them, as the hoofbeats faded. The enclosing shadow of this darkest time of night should have oppressed her, but instead gave her peace.
Instead of seeing it as the king’s time of power, Althessa thought of it as an ally. She thought of it as a friend who wrapped his dark cloak about the villagers and concealed them from the king’s sight. Her thoughts were broken as Rowany stood, and walked purposefully towards the laird. Althessa scrambled to her feet, and hurried to catch up.
Her mistress said nothing, and Althessa was surprised to sense neither amusement nor anger at her inattentiveness. Only their quick footsteps broke the stillness, their footsteps and growing thud of returning horses.
They reached the laird as Neia and Taloc returned. The scouts did not speak, although the sweat on their horses’ flanks warned of trouble ahead. When the pair had dismounted and stood before the laird, they looked furtively at the priests and house guard crowding about him, scanning the faces closest them.
After a long pause, the scouts exchanged glances, and then Taloc spoke. He spoke in the low tones of a man who does not want his words to spread beyond the ears of those needing to hear them. Althessa strained to listen.
“We found the patrol we saw this morning,” he said. “We need not fear it.”
“And?”
“There is no sign of whatever caused its slaughter. I sense no danger to our travels.”
The laird said nothing in answer to this. He bowed his head as though in thought, then raised it to look at the eastern sky. There was no threat of full day, but they all knew they had little time.
“I will go with you and see for myself,” he said, before turning to the forester and head of his guard. “Take my people into the forest fringe. Lead them towards the river. Hide them at dawn if you think there is need. I charge you with their care.”
He gestured to one of the priests.
“Go with them. That way you will be able to contact me through the power of the gods.”
The priest bobbed his head and crossed to the forester and guard captain.
“I will do as you ask,” he said, and they nodded.
Satisfied that his wishes would be obeyed, the laird turned to the rest of the priests and indicated Taloc and Neia.
“We will follow these two and make sure the dead truly rest before we join the others.”
He paused as his eyes saw Althessa, standing by Rowany’s side.
“She cannot come,” he said.
“She will have to,” Rowany replied, “or are you implying that she might see worse than she has already?”
The laird looked as though he thought of arguing, then shut his mouth with a snap and turned back to Neia and her fiancé.
“You will lead the way,” he ordered.
No one noticed the slight figure of a boy slip away from the villagers and follow them. Only the snow breezes saw him, and they waited for him to pass before replacing the snow in his steps. Faran did not want to miss anything his laird had found.
It did not take the small company long to reach the carnage discovered by the scouts. There were bodies strewn amongst the trees at the edge of the forest. The stench rose from them in a sickening cloud.
Someone gagged on the smell of it, and was sick in the bushes fringing forest depths. When he returned, only the pallor of his skin gave testimony to his trials. No one laughed; the young soldier would not be the only one to lose his breakfast over this.
Faran slipped through the edge of the gathered priests. He followed Rowany and Althessa, not drawing any attention to himself. After all, those present expected to see a youngster beside Beresia’s priestess—what difference two?
Especially amidst this, he thought to himself, surveying the wreckage of bodies about them.
Althessa looked up from the body Rowany was blessing so that its spirit would stay at rest. There would be a fire today. These remains would have to be burnt. The smoke would act like a beacon.
Other thoughts kept Faran quiet. Something was pulling at his newly found sense of magic, something that reached through the tingling residue of spent power to tug at his soul.
It was like an itch on a summer’s day. It needed to be scratched, demanded his attention. Faran looked around, trying to see what caused it.
He saw nothing. He looked again, both trying to see if he had missed it, and to make sure no one was watching him. He was clear. Everyone was too busy with the death rites to notice him.
He held himself still, not noticing when Rowany moved on to the next corpse. There wassomething else, something magical—and not far away. He glanced back down at the corpse Rowany had been inspecting, and noticed the weapon at its side. Residual magic jarred against living magic. A residing sense of evil scarred the sense of wonder the living magic roused.
Faran stepped away from it. When he found his power, he vowed, such weapons would meet their downfall through the creations of his hands. The living magic jangled at his nerves and he began moving towards it.
* * *
Althessa was moving also. She had been overawed by the sense of evil she felt coming from the body of the undead soldiers, but there had been something else as well.
She closed her eyes. There! Without the interference of her sight, she could sense it—a need, a hurt that required healing. Opening her eyes, Althessa gripped and held that sense of need.
Rowany had moved on, leaving the purified remains of one corpse for the still-tainted body of another. Althessa looked for her mistress and saw her bend over the second body. Now she knew she wouldn’t be able to interrupt. Rowany had begun the rites to settle the soldier’s spirit and could not be disturbed.
The need pulled at her—demanding—an ache in her spirit. Althessa took a few steps towards it. She reached a thicker stand of trees and looked back at Rowany. Maybe her mistress had finished…
Rowany began the second sing-song verse in the litany, and did not look away from the body. Althessa sighed and stepped away, threading her way through the attendant priests and into the forest itself.
The bushes thinned a little as she progressed towards the need’s origin, and the trees grew steadily further apart. Althessa breathed a prayer to the goddess and felt the comfort of the Beresia’s touch. Drawing courage from that, Althessa stepped resolutely forward.
* * *
Faran stopped. There was something else in the trees with him. Its feet made the dry leaves of the fall crackle, and twigs snap as it approached. He found shelter beside a fallen log, and waited for whatever it was to pass.
The thing came closer, almost as though it had been following him. Faran pressed against the tree trunk and held his breath. The sense of magic pulled at him but he resisted.
Better he should find out what walked in his wake, than let it find him unready. A patch of green flashed between the grey-brown trees and he tensed. He caught sight of it again, and again. Each time it was nearer. Faran waited. He did not expect to see his sister step out of a clump of bushes.
Faran watched as she paused, frowning. His gaze never left her as she turned and kept walking. It was as though she was looking for something, as though something drew her towards itself.
He paused, suddenly conscious of the magical drawing he felt. Althessa was walking towards it. He stood up, letting the leaves crunch underneath him as he did so.
Althessa spun about to face him. A little of the tension left her face as she recognized him.
“Faran!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought I’d tag along with you and the laird,” he answered, “then I felt...” He paused, wanting, but reluctant, to share the sensation of living magic he felt.
Althessa ignored his half-finished sentence.
“You felt it too?” she asked.
Faran looked at her, saw how her eyes shone with the excitement of it, and could not deny he shared what she felt. He nodded. They did not say anything else. Words seemed somehow inadequate. A bond grew between them that superseded speaking, and they turned in the direction of the power and its need.
Neither could not see its source but they followed its insistent pull, hurrying their steps as need grew to desperation, and urgency threaded its demands. Something needed them, was calling to them both, and they had no choice but to answer.
* * *
The defender despaired. Death’s hand had touched him. A weapon of unclean, unhallowed origin had parted his flesh, shredding it to tatters. He clung to life in his cradle of snow, and watched it fading from him.
The sound of footsteps on the snow and leaves disturbed him. He almost allowed the last tendrils of life to fall away, but voices intruded.
Children! These were not the voices of warriors. The defender struggled to open his eyes, then closed them in disappointment. Bah! Human children—what good were they?
“There!”
That explosion of sound made him wince. Surely they did not mean him?
“Yes,” the other replied, a girl child, he pondered idly. “I see him.”
“Can we touch him?” The girl’s voice was timid now.
The boy-child answered with uncertainty.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to if I’m to get the magic to work.”
“I too, if I’m to ask the Lady for her aid.”
There was silence as the pair came to a silent agreement.
Something special there, the defender thought, feeling his life force ebb further. They understand each other perfectly yet I hear no words.
Someone raised his shoulders from the snow, careful not to damage the joints of his wings. The girl child gasped, and the defender smiled weakly to himself. She had seen his wings, then—or what had become of them.
Another pair of hands descended, straightening his wings, and adding deeper shades of pain to the agony he already felt. He studied it, seeing how his life-force rallied against it, and marveling.
When his wings had been spread carefully in their proper shape, he heard the girl’s voice once more. It was a prayer, with a single goddess named.
Beresia? he wondered, watching the darkness of death creeping towards him. A human goddess?
It didn’t seem to matter to the girl that he wasn’t human, that he was fey—a creature of myth and legend. Her voice rose in a sing-song prayer to her deity, and held no doubts that her deity would answer.
The darkness swirled closer, and agony became a flaring light against it. The boy-child had lain him on his side. The defender waited, wishing he could stand to meet that encroaching night, wishing he had died in battle as a young warrior should.
Now the boy-child raised his voice, its tones slightly harsher and unpracticed in melody. The faerie sighed. To die with that cacophony in his ears.
Worse still, he thought, relaxing on the dark waves that mingled with the gold of his life and the multi-colored bruising of his injuries. Worse still to live and be indebted to human children for his life.
A strange warmth filled him, spreading from where the girl child’s hands still rested on the ragged fragments of his wings. Fire flowed along the broken vanes, liquid fire burned through the tattered strips of wing membrane.
The defender screamed. The cacophony of chants faltered, strengthened, flowed over and around him. The fire had taken the remnants of his wings! He could not feel them anymore. He struggled to rise, and felt none of the magical energy that usually filled him when he fought. He was powerless, helpless against the hands that pinned him to the ground. The fire from his wings was spreading.
He felt the fierceness of it in the wing joints, in his shoulders, in his back. He felt… he felt the… His magic was returning! The arcane essence that made up his soul was coming back. It was coming back! That essence filled the sea beneath him with summer gold and winter silver. It came to him with the warm bronze of autumn, the pale turquoise of spring skies.
The defender basked in it, feeling the warmth of a strange fire burning through him, and not caring anymore. Slowly, the cacophony of the children’s music faded. Their hands lifted away.
He lay there with his eyes closed, the coolness of the ground beneath him a balm to the fire in his wings. His wings! He’d thought them burnt away, melted by the heat of a human god’s healing. He sensed the children waiting.
They were waiting, he realized with a touch of bitter regret, for him to open his eyes and acknowledge the debt he owed them. He flexed the magic within him, unaware of how it made a shimmer of light pulse across his body.
The children drew back.
“He lives.” The girl’s voice was matter-of fact.
He did not see the boy nod in reply. They were kneeling quietly beside him, when he opened his eyes.
They did not say anything as he rose and twisted about to see the state of his wings. His wings weren’t the baby-fresh creations he had feared. The goddess served by the girl-child seemed to understand at least that much of the fey. She had left the old membrane, not replaced it. New membrane filled in the spaces between the tatters left by the undead’s blade. It partially overlay and secured the join between tears.
The defender stretched his wings with care, afraid the healing was not complete. Relief was a palpable blow when he realized the healing was complete, and that it was perfect in its completion. He could not fault it. He would carry the scars of a seasoned warrior and not need to bear the taunts of an untried youngling. It would be known what he had faced and it would be acknowledged.
Acknowledged. The word stirred other memories, other words of honor. He owed his life to these children. He owed them his life. The defender snapped his wings closed, feeling the color of his shame rising to his face. How could he owe humans his life? He studied the youngsters before him.
They watched him unperturbed. They did not seem to realize the trouble they had brought. Now the tattered scarring on his wings would be a symbol of shame, as well as a badge of prowess.
The defender bowed his head. One of the children made to stand—the boy—showing all the impatience of one of the men of his race. The girl signaled him to remain.
“The Lady bids us be still,” she said. “We must allow him to acknowledge his debt.”
“He owes us nothing,” the boy snapped. “He was dying. We helped him. There is nothing more.”
Anger flared within the faerie’s breast.
How dare the human assume that the fey held their lives so cheaply. No, a debt of honor was what he owed—his life; he would have to repay. He turned so that he faced them both.
The words of his debt rose to his lips and were stilled. There was something he was forgetting, something…
The girl had already sensed it. Her face had grown as white as the snow scattered beneath the trees. The boy gasped. The warrior crumpled. This pain was worse than all the pain that had gone before. If only he had remembered, he struggled to unclench an arm from about his waist and pointed.
Althessa did not need the signal. She could already sense the need, a need hidden by the need of the warrior and the aftermath of the goddess’s touch. She felt it now and it drove her to her knees, so that she was forced to crawl towards it.
Faran sensed the imbalance of magic just beyond the clearing, he sensed the link between its source and the fairy warrior.
“Come with me,” he ordered, seizing the warrior’s hand.
Without thinking, the warrior leant against the young human’s side. His bond-mount lay at death’s door, had lain dying while he’d debated honoring the debt he owed the children.
The creature’s pain rolled over him once more and he realized it had been keeping this pain from him. It had been trying to spare him its agony while he had lain watching the tide of death roll towards him.
The taunts of the other warriors meant nothing to him in the face of his bond-mount’s life—meant nothing if he was to lose the creature, yet survive. He fought against the doubling pain and ran towards it.
* * *
Althessa found the creature folded up behind a rock. Its pain was too great for her to bear. She could feel its need thrumming through her and was reaching for the goddess before her hands had touched its hide.
Beresia answered, filling the child with as much healing power as the girl could bear. Even goddess’s can make mistakes.
The magicks that made the creature reached out and wrapped themselves around Althessa’s hands. Althessa cried out in shock, but did not let go. She drew fiercely on Beresia’s power, seeking to blend it with the flaring energy that was the creature incarnate.
She needed Faran. Without knowing it, she called his name. She called upon them all. She called to her goddess, then cried out the names of all the gods she knew.
There were not many. Aravare, Beresia’s husband, the god of balance; Maraloch, Beresia’s daughter, goddess of justice, the unraveler of her sister Berveragna’s webs; Sariel, goddess of magic. Without knowing it Althessa called Sariel’s name twice, only to receive the hollow emptiness of no reply.
For some reason this made her weep, but she retained her sense of purpose and bent to trying to mend the beast before her. Faran came to her in time to see the creature’s flaring magic twist about her arms.
It was as though the beast was made of string or yarn and was unraveling before his eyes. Althessa must be mad!
He felt the faerie stumble at his side, the closeness of his beast’s distress forcing the warrior to his knees. Sighing, Faran unhooked the small man’s hand from his arm and laid him on the ground. Already he could feel the magic sense ringing alarms within him.
Faran made himself stand back from the creature and study it, letting his sense of magic replace his eyes, allowing himself to fall into the unraveling mess that was a living, dying beast.
While Althessa began her healing chant once more, Faran gathered a little of the spilling power to himself. It was bitter, tainted by the poison of an unholy blade, and he longed to drop it, to let it go. He looked down at his sister and saw how the fires had joined themselves across her back. She was deep into the chant now, but he could not place where he had heard it before.
Althessa’s eyes were closed. She could see how to mend the creature’s flesh more clearly without the light of its magic in her eyes. Slowly, she was weaving it back together, patching flesh to flesh and knitting muscle to bone. It was the raging magicks that she could not control.
Faran’s presence beside her was a relief. The gods had told him that magic was his concern, now let the gods gift him with the means to know what to do. Althessa sent Beresia’s gift of power into the beast’s small body and saw another bone bend back together.
Faran was almost silent as he worked beside her. His hands wove patterns in the air and a small tune began to hum from his throat. He had only begun his studies in magic, four days ago when a wizard had joined the villagers in their flight from the king’s wrath. Never had Faran dared draw this much power to himself.
Gradually he separated the tangling strands, smoothing them and weaving them back together. It was no use; the tangles sprang back, worse than before as the magical fibers wove, then rewove themselves into knots, each one more tangled than the last.
Worse than the tangling, was the sudden flaring that occurred, or the reaching, twining strands that seemed to have no attachment to the body that had housed them. At first Faran tried to avoid these fragments of magic, then he allowed them to wind themselves about him in the hope that he could repair them and persuade them back to their proper host.
The twining strands wrapped themselves about him and he felt searing pain at their touch. He would have cried out, but the chant kept tumbling from his lips. He was going to die. Faran sensed this with the part of him that was still alive, and knew he could not escape it. He would have grieved for his sister and the beast they fought to save, but he did not have time. Trying to block the knowledge from his mind, he bent to the task he had set.
No longer did he try to untangle the floating strands. Now he tried to take them and blend them with the flesh and blood of the creature’s mending body. He joined his magic to the healing being worked by Althessa, weaving the threads of the power he had gathered into the power that was being poured through her.
He wondered if the gods despaired as he caught another of the finely webbed magicks that had formed the creature’s essence. Gently, he set it against the meshing muscles of its chest and melded it into them.
The magick flared with resentment. Too much of it had been torn. Its integrity had been breached. A cursed blade wielded by undead hands had cloven through its strands and the poison of its passage remained.
Althessa had finished knitting the creature’s body before she found the black and green tracery of venom in its tissues. She sighed and reached for more power.
“Oh, goddess of poisons and creatures vile,” she whispered, not knowing that the being she called on was as real as the lady she served.
The goddess responded. She plucked at the knowledge in the child’s mind and found it lacking. She felt the overloading magick, and wondered what price she could extract from the child’s soul, or the goddess the child served. Such debts would one day need to be repaid. With an effort, she reached for the poison through Althessa’s fingertips, touched and tasted it, and almost died.
Fear from her close brush with destruction startled her. Never had she had cause to fear a toxin, a venom, or a poison. Never had she nearly died from something that should have stood within her realm. She felt herself trembling, felt her power weaken. She sensed the taint of undeath and corrupted power within the venom’s bonds and called upon the goddess of necromancers.
On the world below her, Althessa struggled to draw the poison from the muscles and flesh she had healed, and Faran sought to clear it from the strands. Neither of them noticed how their own flesh was darkening, nor did they feel how the heat of disassembling magic was rising. It created a light in the forest, one which rose to meet the sun. It enveloped the children, making them little more than silhouettes in a flaring orange haze.
The goddess of poisons completed her conference and turned her attention to the spark of life that was Althessa. Beside her, the goddess of necromancers did the same.
The poison had almost completed its work. The magic that made up the being of the beast was nearly frayed beyond repair. Faran’s efforts made little change to the inevitability of its destruction.
The goddesses did not pause. They would work through both fledgling mage and rising priestess. They joined their power and wove it. They sent the knowledge and the ability to wield their gift. They would extract a price for their services later—if the pair survived.
* * *
Rowany raised her head from the weapon in the undead’s outstretched hand. There was magic in the air. She could sense it. She shook herself. Nonsense! There was no way that she could sense the arcane. Her senses were tuned to the use of priestly magic, and that alone.
Nevertheless...
There were footsteps coming through the forest, unconcealed and unconcerned. Rowany looked briefly towards them. The villagers had arrived. Rowany frowned. Hadn’t the laird ordered them to push on toward the river?
The laird thought so too. He was hurrying to meet them, a look like thunder on his face. His expression said that the priest he had set to be their guide had better have a good explanation.
The sense of power drew at Rowany until she could not ignore it. Better she should find out who wielded this much magic so close to them, than they be taken unawares. She stood, dusting dead leaves and polluted snow from her knees.
Voices were raised behind her. Althessa glanced towards them. Faran’s brother, Jomack stood, face-to-face with his laird, as confrontational as she’d ever seen him. The priest who had been tasked with leading the villagers was standing in between, one hand on each man’s chest. Jomack, having spoken, was staring across the clearing of purified dead. He was staring in the direction of the magic Rowany sensed.
Her gaze must have alerted him, for he looked briefly in her direction. Their eyes met.
“You feel it too,” he said, coming towards her.
“You feel it too!” he repeated, his voice rising.
It was true; she could feel it, and it was not arcane alone. Mingled within the maelstrom of power was the gifting of the gods.
Surely,she thought, surely no human can withstand such power, let alone wield it with success.
Her thoughts turned abruptly to her apprentice. She looked around the clearing.
“Althessa?” she called. “Althessa?”
There was no reply. Jomack followed her gaze.
“Faran’s missing as well,” he said.
They spoke no more, but turned as one towards the forest and the rising crescendo of magic. Behind them someone called their names. They did not hear, focusing all their senses on the maelstrom ahead. Without waiting for more, they began to run, passing through the guardian bushes and a thicket of trees, neither of them noticing, or needing to see, the faint trail the children had left. They passed the place the children had saved the wounded fairy without registering it with their eyes.
The light from beyond the clearing blinded them. Jomack would have rushed into it if Rowany hadn’t laid a hand on his arm.
“It will do them no good if you perish now,” she said, and he came to an unwilling halt.
Slowly, they approached the glare and noticed a lesser glare beside it. The fairy had found the strength to fight for his beast.
He stood to one side of the rising ball of magic and tried to contain it. The strands of his power were a cool, green web against the orange fire before him. He did not look at them as they approached, but addressed them, just the same.
“Do not come closer,” he ordered with the confidence of one used to command. “The gods do as much as they can.”
Rowany sent a prayer to Beresia and realized that her goddess had been present all along. She reached for the calming power the goddess sent, and shaped it to match the web the fairy wielded.
Jomack stood with his hands at his side. There was nothing he could do. His younger brother was barely visible within the sphere of arcane light, and there was nothing he could do! He took a step toward the fire. There was a muttered oath from behind him and heavy steps joined the sound of Rowany’s chant. Strong arms wrapped themselves around him and threw him to the ground.
“Let me up!” he roared. “That’s my brother in there and my sister! I have to save them. In the name of the gods let me up.”
“It can’t be done,” the man above him grunted as Jomack struggled to stand.
“When this is done…” Jomack began, rolling to one side.
Someone else hit him, grabbing his arm and dragging him away from the magic.
“Don’t make threats you’ll regret later,” a new voice ordered.
“It’s Althessa! And Faran!” Joram cried, startled to hear his voice cracking into sobs, “Damn you. It’s Althessa and Faran.”
The weight on his back was unrelenting. The hands that had drawn his arms behind him did not let go.
“Let the gods do what they will,” the newer voice said. “This is not for the likes of us.”
Jomack raised his head and looked towards the barely visible forms behind their curtain of power. There was nothing he could do. He listened, becoming aware of other voices, of his mother trying to soothe his other sister’s tears, of the hiss of steel clearing a scabbard. Neia’s voice cracked sharply in an oath that brought silence to the sudden surge of footsteps at the clearing’s edge.
“Be still! All of you!” she ordered. “This is work for magicians and priests, or would you all perish attempting at a rescue you cannot hope to achieve.”
There was a murmur of assent at this, but she snapped at them.
“Well I, for one, will not jeopardize the children’s lives by meddling with something the gods have in their hands, nor will I allow you to risk their lives so you can all be dead heroes.”
Jomack heard someone move forwards, and sensed his sister’s abrupt turn to face them. He relaxed when he heard Taloc’s voice answer her.
“I’ll stand with you,” her fiancé told her, then raised his voice to address the others. “No one will interfere in the work of gods and mages.”
Jomack heard the priestess gasp. One of the men on his back groaned. He turned his attention to the children wrapped in magical fire.
One of them had dropped one of the strands they had been holding. The strand had coiled back like a snake and struck at them. One of the voices within the maelstrom faltered and the sphere about them flared more brightly.
The drama took all their attention, and no one noticed the sound of a myriad wings descend about them. Suddenly two score of green nets wrapped themselves about the sphere.
Jomack tore his eyes from the children within it and looked up. He felt the hands on his wrists grow slack, but did nothing except close his mouth.
They were surrounded by faeries; an entire tribe of them. The small folk seemed not to notice them. Each faerie was concentrating on the sphere, trying to cool the rampaging power that flared within it. Each tiny creature was ignoring the humans, risking itself to tame the magical fury before them.
Very slowly, Jomack turned his head back to his siblings. The sphere about them was losing some of its orange hue. It was fading, becoming a crisp, yellow-gold. Jomack began to relax. Whatever the faeries were doing, it was working.
Within the sphere Faran and Althessa were having more success with their weaving. Wild strands of magic were submitting to their chants, allowing themselves to be drawn back into the creature they had formed before.
Jomack allowed his cheek to touch the ground. He watched as the green nets glowed against the golden sphere. He saw what happened when one of the children fumbled the words of their chant.
A dozen strands tore loose from the creature they were trying to save and spun into the air about Althessa’s head. There was an oath of startlement, followed by Neia’s sharp cry of annoyance and a ground-shaking thump.
The hands on Jomack’s wrists tightened as he struggled to reach his sister.
“Don’t even think of it,” came a warning rumble from above him.
Jomack thought he heard tears in the voice, but he stilled, only raising his head to watch the children in the sphere. The magic roared, like a fire that had a pine branch added. The faerie webs split and snapped, recoiling about their casters in vengeful fury.
There was a collective cry of startlement from the little folk, followed by the sound of humming wings. The fey settled to the ground to wait. Some were tending comrades that had fallen from the recoiling of the nets. All of them were weeping.
“By the gods, Faran, let it go,” Jomack whispered, as he watched his brother collect another of the strands and begin to meld it with the magic Althessa was casting.
“Althessa,” he groaned moments later when he saw the magic that entwined her biting into her arms and splitting the material of her robe across her back.
He groaned again when his sister gasped in the middle of a chant. The magic around her burst into the spikes of vengeful flame, and her robe began to burn.
Jomack renewed his struggle and, catching his captors by surprise, managed to free one of his arms. It was short-lived. Someone stood on it and someone else pushed his face into the forest floor.
He forced himself to relax. Even if he couldn’t help, he still wanted to be able to see. The hand on his head relented and he raised his head.
“Enough!”
The new voice made him drag his eyes from the burning fires. He sensed the men above him tense.
“Enough,” the voice repeated, and it was a voice he did not know.
Jomack turned his eyes towards it, and saw an old man carrying a greenwood staff.
Before anyone could stop him, the old man stepped into the magical sphere. Energy roared around him, engulfing him beyond the sight of eyes. Joram found his sight blurred by tears of pain. Several villagers cried out in surprise.
The brightness did not lessen, rather it intensified until no one was sure what they were seeing. They only knew that the burning flames across Althessa’s back were drawn to the column of power the old man had become and were absorbed by it.
There was silence for a long moment, then the power reached towards the children once more. Joram tensed, relaxing only when the power passed into their hands and let them weave it into, and around, the creature on the ground before them.
It was like watching his mother spin. The column drew the sphere’s strands into itself, rewove them and sent them back to Althessa and Faran to knit back into the creature.
The beast on the ground grew. It began to glow. Slowly it roused itself and stood, somewhat unsteadily, on four feet. Wings sprouted from its shoulders—giant, feathery things that seemed blown by an invisible breeze. Faran unwrapped the magic wound around himself, and passed it into the column before taking it back and blending into airy feathers. Once the last of the rampant magic was soothed into finding a home, the column unraveled itself.
The sun was fading by the time the last of the column’s power had been dispersed, and they were once more looking at an old man with a greenwood staff.
The beast on the ground stepped towards Althessa and Faran, placing its great head against their foreheads. It rested there for a long moment before stepping past them to the warrior that stood beyond them.
It came to his chest, if you did not include the wings. He knelt before it and spoke in a tongue none of them understood. There were tears in his eyes as it placed its face against his in reply, and then silence.
When they drew apart it was to face the man with the staff. Fey and beast approached with footsteps still weak from what had gone before. The man waited. When they reached him, they both bowed.
“Our debt is great.”
“You will pay it in time.”
They paused, looking at each other in solemn understanding. Words, it seemed, would have been inadequate for what passed between them. Silence held the clearing. The warrior and his beast stood and stared at the old man. The old man kept their gaze, trapped within his own.
Faran and Althessa sat, still too stunned by what had transpired to move, their skin glowing gently from the aftermath of magic.
The villagers, Jomack and the laird found it impossible to move, or speak, the enormity of what had passed suddenly falling on their minds like thunder.
The fey were too busy tending their wounded and waiting for the old man to say something, to do anything but cast apprehensive glances towards the human-folk that had come into their lands.
When the silence was broken it was by the whirr of small wings and a frantic cry in faerie tongue. Tension came with him. Even the faerie wounded struggled to rise, their small hands reaching for weapons, their faces sudden masks of anger and destruction.
The old man’s voice stilled them, his words leaving no other option than obedience.
“Follow me,” he said. “The forest will fend for itself.”
“Trust me,” he continued when the fey folk hesitated. “I have called and the forest has answered. The forest will be safe today and hereafter. There are forces greater than any of us to protect it. The king’s men will find little to please them here.”
Again the faeries hesitated. This time they looked to their queen. She rose from beside one of her warriors and drifted on silent wings towards the druid.
The messenger’s wings beat the air in agitation, but his voice remained silent as he waited for his queen to speak.
She chose the common tongue and her words were clear in the winter afternoon.
“We will do as you say Protector of the Forest. We will follow you and listen to your advice.”
The protector nodded.
“It shall be as you have commanded, your Highness. Follow me.”
The fey moved, sheathing their weapons and summoning strange creatures to their side. The villagers looked in confusion to their lord.
The protector stepped towards the children and took them each by a hand.
“Come with me,” he said. “I will keep you safe.”
“We have a new guide.”
The laird’s voice was calm but the order in its tone was unmistakable. He released Jomack’s wrists and stood.
“Follow the Forest’s Protector,” he said, ushering his people before him. His guard hung back beside him. They were the last to move through the winter trees.
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Magick on the Forest's Edge is available as a stand-alone short story at the following links: books2read.com/u/mvK7O6.
You can also find Kristine Kathryn Rusch's latest free short story over on her blog: kriswrites.com. Why don't you go and check it out?
Forced to flee with her village, priestly apprentice, Althessa, discovers that danger comes in many guises and salvation is often unexpected. When their undead pursuers are slain by an unknown force, Althessa assists her mistress in consecrating their remains to ensure they cannot return from the dead, yet again. But magick calls from a nearby forest, and another life is in danger. One of those responsible for bringing down their pursuers is balanced on the edge of death. With the priests too busy to assist, and only her wizardly brother to assist, can she perform the healing required, or will the attempt bring death to all who dare it?Magick on the Forest's Edge
They were three weeks into their flight before the forest came into view. It had been hard, moving an entire village with little more than a night’s notice, harder still to avoid the undead warriors pursuing them. Winter was drawing perilously near. It meant respite from the endless pursuit, but certain destruction if shelter for the season wasn’t found.Althessa was wakened by Rowany, her mentor and priestess to Beresia. Having slept the day, they hurried to receive the evening meal Althessa’s mother, Mallee, and the other village women had prepared.
It was bread, cold mutton, and cheese, again, but no one minded enough to complain. The food was filling and took little time to prepare and consume. Time took precedence over even the smallest of matters in their flight, and the laird had promised a change to their diet as soon as they were free of Escarlion’s borders, and the creatures on their trail.
Once they’d eaten, Rowany took Althessa to join the other priests in their evening supplications. Tonight their prayers would call the starlight and the snow breezes; one to guide them, the others to cover their tracks.
Althessa rejoiced in the prayers. She could feel herself growing in Beresia’s favor and power each time she communed with the goddess. She reveled in the goddess’s pleasure, rejoicing in the service she had found.
Even the king’s prejudice against the priesthoods could not spoil her joy. Althessa lifted her voice and blended it with the prayers of the other priests, calling the goddess’s attention to the villagers’ need once more. And, once more, Althessa felt the gods answer in chorus and her eyes filling with tears of joy at their reply.
She saw the intensity of her feelings reflected in the faces of the other priests. All had had felt the comfort of their gods, before, but this chorus of gods was something still new to them, and they treasured it.
The starlight shone around them, gilding the coming night in silver. Althessa stared in wonder. Around her, the same wonder touched all the villagers’ faces, as they arranged themselves in the marching order dictated by their laird. Tonight they would reach the forest’s edge, and safety.
Later that evening, when the meal was over and the fullness of night had come, the villagers left the copse on the hill, descending to travel along the valley floor. The going was easier at the foot of the valley, and they were less likely to be seen from a distance.
The breezes summoned by the priests divided. Half twirled on ahead, clearing a path through the deep drifts left by the day’s snowfall. The other half pushed the snow back into place behind them.
They would reach the forest before dawn.
Althessa stumbled beside her mistress and felt Rowany’s hand on her arm, steadying her. The low path seemed to go on forever. Althessa sighed, forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other.
When Rowany stopped beside her, Althessa stopped, also, and wondered if she would be able to gather the energy to start walking again. The stench of something burnt, or dead, fouled the air.
Althessa lifted her head. Something dead? Her gaze sought Rowany’s face and she saw that it had grown as still as a mask. The laird was speaking.
Now Althessa understood the stillness in Rowany’s face. Her mistress was listening to the laird, using magic to gather words too far away to hear. Well, she could do that too. Althessa drew a little of the goddess’s power and formed it into a carrier of sound. The laird was at the front of the villagers. He had insisted on leading them, as always. Rowany and Althessa were somewhere in the middle.
Althessa reached out with the listening power, and caught the laird’s words with it.
“...go and see what makes that stench,” the laird was saying.
“Yes, sir.”
“Yessir.”
Althessa stifled a gasp of protest as she recognized Neia and Taloc’s voices. She could not bear to think of losing them so soon after they had come home.
She heard the thud hoofbeats, as her sister and future brother-in-law wheeled their horses and rode away. Althessa withdrew the power. The laird would say no more until his scouts returned. At his signal, she settled down to wait with the other villages. Pre-dawn stillness closed around them, as the hoofbeats faded. The enclosing shadow of this darkest time of night should have oppressed her, but instead gave her peace.
Instead of seeing it as the king’s time of power, Althessa thought of it as an ally. She thought of it as a friend who wrapped his dark cloak about the villagers and concealed them from the king’s sight. Her thoughts were broken as Rowany stood, and walked purposefully towards the laird. Althessa scrambled to her feet, and hurried to catch up.
Her mistress said nothing, and Althessa was surprised to sense neither amusement nor anger at her inattentiveness. Only their quick footsteps broke the stillness, their footsteps and growing thud of returning horses.
They reached the laird as Neia and Taloc returned. The scouts did not speak, although the sweat on their horses’ flanks warned of trouble ahead. When the pair had dismounted and stood before the laird, they looked furtively at the priests and house guard crowding about him, scanning the faces closest them.
After a long pause, the scouts exchanged glances, and then Taloc spoke. He spoke in the low tones of a man who does not want his words to spread beyond the ears of those needing to hear them. Althessa strained to listen.
“We found the patrol we saw this morning,” he said. “We need not fear it.”
“And?”
“There is no sign of whatever caused its slaughter. I sense no danger to our travels.”
The laird said nothing in answer to this. He bowed his head as though in thought, then raised it to look at the eastern sky. There was no threat of full day, but they all knew they had little time.
“I will go with you and see for myself,” he said, before turning to the forester and head of his guard. “Take my people into the forest fringe. Lead them towards the river. Hide them at dawn if you think there is need. I charge you with their care.”
He gestured to one of the priests.
“Go with them. That way you will be able to contact me through the power of the gods.”
The priest bobbed his head and crossed to the forester and guard captain.
“I will do as you ask,” he said, and they nodded.
Satisfied that his wishes would be obeyed, the laird turned to the rest of the priests and indicated Taloc and Neia.
“We will follow these two and make sure the dead truly rest before we join the others.”
He paused as his eyes saw Althessa, standing by Rowany’s side.
“She cannot come,” he said.
“She will have to,” Rowany replied, “or are you implying that she might see worse than she has already?”
The laird looked as though he thought of arguing, then shut his mouth with a snap and turned back to Neia and her fiancé.
“You will lead the way,” he ordered.
No one noticed the slight figure of a boy slip away from the villagers and follow them. Only the snow breezes saw him, and they waited for him to pass before replacing the snow in his steps. Faran did not want to miss anything his laird had found.
It did not take the small company long to reach the carnage discovered by the scouts. There were bodies strewn amongst the trees at the edge of the forest. The stench rose from them in a sickening cloud.
Someone gagged on the smell of it, and was sick in the bushes fringing forest depths. When he returned, only the pallor of his skin gave testimony to his trials. No one laughed; the young soldier would not be the only one to lose his breakfast over this.
Faran slipped through the edge of the gathered priests. He followed Rowany and Althessa, not drawing any attention to himself. After all, those present expected to see a youngster beside Beresia’s priestess—what difference two?
Especially amidst this, he thought to himself, surveying the wreckage of bodies about them.
Althessa looked up from the body Rowany was blessing so that its spirit would stay at rest. There would be a fire today. These remains would have to be burnt. The smoke would act like a beacon.
Other thoughts kept Faran quiet. Something was pulling at his newly found sense of magic, something that reached through the tingling residue of spent power to tug at his soul.
It was like an itch on a summer’s day. It needed to be scratched, demanded his attention. Faran looked around, trying to see what caused it.
He saw nothing. He looked again, both trying to see if he had missed it, and to make sure no one was watching him. He was clear. Everyone was too busy with the death rites to notice him.
He held himself still, not noticing when Rowany moved on to the next corpse. There wassomething else, something magical—and not far away. He glanced back down at the corpse Rowany had been inspecting, and noticed the weapon at its side. Residual magic jarred against living magic. A residing sense of evil scarred the sense of wonder the living magic roused.
Faran stepped away from it. When he found his power, he vowed, such weapons would meet their downfall through the creations of his hands. The living magic jangled at his nerves and he began moving towards it.
* * *
Althessa was moving also. She had been overawed by the sense of evil she felt coming from the body of the undead soldiers, but there had been something else as well.
She closed her eyes. There! Without the interference of her sight, she could sense it—a need, a hurt that required healing. Opening her eyes, Althessa gripped and held that sense of need.
Rowany had moved on, leaving the purified remains of one corpse for the still-tainted body of another. Althessa looked for her mistress and saw her bend over the second body. Now she knew she wouldn’t be able to interrupt. Rowany had begun the rites to settle the soldier’s spirit and could not be disturbed.
The need pulled at her—demanding—an ache in her spirit. Althessa took a few steps towards it. She reached a thicker stand of trees and looked back at Rowany. Maybe her mistress had finished…
Rowany began the second sing-song verse in the litany, and did not look away from the body. Althessa sighed and stepped away, threading her way through the attendant priests and into the forest itself.
The bushes thinned a little as she progressed towards the need’s origin, and the trees grew steadily further apart. Althessa breathed a prayer to the goddess and felt the comfort of the Beresia’s touch. Drawing courage from that, Althessa stepped resolutely forward.
* * *
Faran stopped. There was something else in the trees with him. Its feet made the dry leaves of the fall crackle, and twigs snap as it approached. He found shelter beside a fallen log, and waited for whatever it was to pass.
The thing came closer, almost as though it had been following him. Faran pressed against the tree trunk and held his breath. The sense of magic pulled at him but he resisted.
Better he should find out what walked in his wake, than let it find him unready. A patch of green flashed between the grey-brown trees and he tensed. He caught sight of it again, and again. Each time it was nearer. Faran waited. He did not expect to see his sister step out of a clump of bushes.
Faran watched as she paused, frowning. His gaze never left her as she turned and kept walking. It was as though she was looking for something, as though something drew her towards itself.
He paused, suddenly conscious of the magical drawing he felt. Althessa was walking towards it. He stood up, letting the leaves crunch underneath him as he did so.
Althessa spun about to face him. A little of the tension left her face as she recognized him.
“Faran!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought I’d tag along with you and the laird,” he answered, “then I felt...” He paused, wanting, but reluctant, to share the sensation of living magic he felt.
Althessa ignored his half-finished sentence.
“You felt it too?” she asked.
Faran looked at her, saw how her eyes shone with the excitement of it, and could not deny he shared what she felt. He nodded. They did not say anything else. Words seemed somehow inadequate. A bond grew between them that superseded speaking, and they turned in the direction of the power and its need.
Neither could not see its source but they followed its insistent pull, hurrying their steps as need grew to desperation, and urgency threaded its demands. Something needed them, was calling to them both, and they had no choice but to answer.
* * *
The defender despaired. Death’s hand had touched him. A weapon of unclean, unhallowed origin had parted his flesh, shredding it to tatters. He clung to life in his cradle of snow, and watched it fading from him.
The sound of footsteps on the snow and leaves disturbed him. He almost allowed the last tendrils of life to fall away, but voices intruded.
Children! These were not the voices of warriors. The defender struggled to open his eyes, then closed them in disappointment. Bah! Human children—what good were they?
“There!”
That explosion of sound made him wince. Surely they did not mean him?
“Yes,” the other replied, a girl child, he pondered idly. “I see him.”
“Can we touch him?” The girl’s voice was timid now.
The boy-child answered with uncertainty.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to if I’m to get the magic to work.”
“I too, if I’m to ask the Lady for her aid.”
There was silence as the pair came to a silent agreement.
Something special there, the defender thought, feeling his life force ebb further. They understand each other perfectly yet I hear no words.
Someone raised his shoulders from the snow, careful not to damage the joints of his wings. The girl child gasped, and the defender smiled weakly to himself. She had seen his wings, then—or what had become of them.
Another pair of hands descended, straightening his wings, and adding deeper shades of pain to the agony he already felt. He studied it, seeing how his life-force rallied against it, and marveling.
When his wings had been spread carefully in their proper shape, he heard the girl’s voice once more. It was a prayer, with a single goddess named.
Beresia? he wondered, watching the darkness of death creeping towards him. A human goddess?
It didn’t seem to matter to the girl that he wasn’t human, that he was fey—a creature of myth and legend. Her voice rose in a sing-song prayer to her deity, and held no doubts that her deity would answer.
The darkness swirled closer, and agony became a flaring light against it. The boy-child had lain him on his side. The defender waited, wishing he could stand to meet that encroaching night, wishing he had died in battle as a young warrior should.
Now the boy-child raised his voice, its tones slightly harsher and unpracticed in melody. The faerie sighed. To die with that cacophony in his ears.
Worse still, he thought, relaxing on the dark waves that mingled with the gold of his life and the multi-colored bruising of his injuries. Worse still to live and be indebted to human children for his life.
A strange warmth filled him, spreading from where the girl child’s hands still rested on the ragged fragments of his wings. Fire flowed along the broken vanes, liquid fire burned through the tattered strips of wing membrane.
The defender screamed. The cacophony of chants faltered, strengthened, flowed over and around him. The fire had taken the remnants of his wings! He could not feel them anymore. He struggled to rise, and felt none of the magical energy that usually filled him when he fought. He was powerless, helpless against the hands that pinned him to the ground. The fire from his wings was spreading.
He felt the fierceness of it in the wing joints, in his shoulders, in his back. He felt… he felt the… His magic was returning! The arcane essence that made up his soul was coming back. It was coming back! That essence filled the sea beneath him with summer gold and winter silver. It came to him with the warm bronze of autumn, the pale turquoise of spring skies.
The defender basked in it, feeling the warmth of a strange fire burning through him, and not caring anymore. Slowly, the cacophony of the children’s music faded. Their hands lifted away.
He lay there with his eyes closed, the coolness of the ground beneath him a balm to the fire in his wings. His wings! He’d thought them burnt away, melted by the heat of a human god’s healing. He sensed the children waiting.
They were waiting, he realized with a touch of bitter regret, for him to open his eyes and acknowledge the debt he owed them. He flexed the magic within him, unaware of how it made a shimmer of light pulse across his body.
The children drew back.
“He lives.” The girl’s voice was matter-of fact.
He did not see the boy nod in reply. They were kneeling quietly beside him, when he opened his eyes.
They did not say anything as he rose and twisted about to see the state of his wings. His wings weren’t the baby-fresh creations he had feared. The goddess served by the girl-child seemed to understand at least that much of the fey. She had left the old membrane, not replaced it. New membrane filled in the spaces between the tatters left by the undead’s blade. It partially overlay and secured the join between tears.
The defender stretched his wings with care, afraid the healing was not complete. Relief was a palpable blow when he realized the healing was complete, and that it was perfect in its completion. He could not fault it. He would carry the scars of a seasoned warrior and not need to bear the taunts of an untried youngling. It would be known what he had faced and it would be acknowledged.
Acknowledged. The word stirred other memories, other words of honor. He owed his life to these children. He owed them his life. The defender snapped his wings closed, feeling the color of his shame rising to his face. How could he owe humans his life? He studied the youngsters before him.
They watched him unperturbed. They did not seem to realize the trouble they had brought. Now the tattered scarring on his wings would be a symbol of shame, as well as a badge of prowess.
The defender bowed his head. One of the children made to stand—the boy—showing all the impatience of one of the men of his race. The girl signaled him to remain.
“The Lady bids us be still,” she said. “We must allow him to acknowledge his debt.”
“He owes us nothing,” the boy snapped. “He was dying. We helped him. There is nothing more.”
Anger flared within the faerie’s breast.
How dare the human assume that the fey held their lives so cheaply. No, a debt of honor was what he owed—his life; he would have to repay. He turned so that he faced them both.
The words of his debt rose to his lips and were stilled. There was something he was forgetting, something…
The girl had already sensed it. Her face had grown as white as the snow scattered beneath the trees. The boy gasped. The warrior crumpled. This pain was worse than all the pain that had gone before. If only he had remembered, he struggled to unclench an arm from about his waist and pointed.
Althessa did not need the signal. She could already sense the need, a need hidden by the need of the warrior and the aftermath of the goddess’s touch. She felt it now and it drove her to her knees, so that she was forced to crawl towards it.
Faran sensed the imbalance of magic just beyond the clearing, he sensed the link between its source and the fairy warrior.
“Come with me,” he ordered, seizing the warrior’s hand.
Without thinking, the warrior leant against the young human’s side. His bond-mount lay at death’s door, had lain dying while he’d debated honoring the debt he owed the children.
The creature’s pain rolled over him once more and he realized it had been keeping this pain from him. It had been trying to spare him its agony while he had lain watching the tide of death roll towards him.
The taunts of the other warriors meant nothing to him in the face of his bond-mount’s life—meant nothing if he was to lose the creature, yet survive. He fought against the doubling pain and ran towards it.
* * *
Althessa found the creature folded up behind a rock. Its pain was too great for her to bear. She could feel its need thrumming through her and was reaching for the goddess before her hands had touched its hide.
Beresia answered, filling the child with as much healing power as the girl could bear. Even goddess’s can make mistakes.
The magicks that made the creature reached out and wrapped themselves around Althessa’s hands. Althessa cried out in shock, but did not let go. She drew fiercely on Beresia’s power, seeking to blend it with the flaring energy that was the creature incarnate.
She needed Faran. Without knowing it, she called his name. She called upon them all. She called to her goddess, then cried out the names of all the gods she knew.
There were not many. Aravare, Beresia’s husband, the god of balance; Maraloch, Beresia’s daughter, goddess of justice, the unraveler of her sister Berveragna’s webs; Sariel, goddess of magic. Without knowing it Althessa called Sariel’s name twice, only to receive the hollow emptiness of no reply.
For some reason this made her weep, but she retained her sense of purpose and bent to trying to mend the beast before her. Faran came to her in time to see the creature’s flaring magic twist about her arms.
It was as though the beast was made of string or yarn and was unraveling before his eyes. Althessa must be mad!
He felt the faerie stumble at his side, the closeness of his beast’s distress forcing the warrior to his knees. Sighing, Faran unhooked the small man’s hand from his arm and laid him on the ground. Already he could feel the magic sense ringing alarms within him.
Faran made himself stand back from the creature and study it, letting his sense of magic replace his eyes, allowing himself to fall into the unraveling mess that was a living, dying beast.
While Althessa began her healing chant once more, Faran gathered a little of the spilling power to himself. It was bitter, tainted by the poison of an unholy blade, and he longed to drop it, to let it go. He looked down at his sister and saw how the fires had joined themselves across her back. She was deep into the chant now, but he could not place where he had heard it before.
Althessa’s eyes were closed. She could see how to mend the creature’s flesh more clearly without the light of its magic in her eyes. Slowly, she was weaving it back together, patching flesh to flesh and knitting muscle to bone. It was the raging magicks that she could not control.
Faran’s presence beside her was a relief. The gods had told him that magic was his concern, now let the gods gift him with the means to know what to do. Althessa sent Beresia’s gift of power into the beast’s small body and saw another bone bend back together.
Faran was almost silent as he worked beside her. His hands wove patterns in the air and a small tune began to hum from his throat. He had only begun his studies in magic, four days ago when a wizard had joined the villagers in their flight from the king’s wrath. Never had Faran dared draw this much power to himself.
Gradually he separated the tangling strands, smoothing them and weaving them back together. It was no use; the tangles sprang back, worse than before as the magical fibers wove, then rewove themselves into knots, each one more tangled than the last.
Worse than the tangling, was the sudden flaring that occurred, or the reaching, twining strands that seemed to have no attachment to the body that had housed them. At first Faran tried to avoid these fragments of magic, then he allowed them to wind themselves about him in the hope that he could repair them and persuade them back to their proper host.
The twining strands wrapped themselves about him and he felt searing pain at their touch. He would have cried out, but the chant kept tumbling from his lips. He was going to die. Faran sensed this with the part of him that was still alive, and knew he could not escape it. He would have grieved for his sister and the beast they fought to save, but he did not have time. Trying to block the knowledge from his mind, he bent to the task he had set.
No longer did he try to untangle the floating strands. Now he tried to take them and blend them with the flesh and blood of the creature’s mending body. He joined his magic to the healing being worked by Althessa, weaving the threads of the power he had gathered into the power that was being poured through her.
He wondered if the gods despaired as he caught another of the finely webbed magicks that had formed the creature’s essence. Gently, he set it against the meshing muscles of its chest and melded it into them.
The magick flared with resentment. Too much of it had been torn. Its integrity had been breached. A cursed blade wielded by undead hands had cloven through its strands and the poison of its passage remained.
Althessa had finished knitting the creature’s body before she found the black and green tracery of venom in its tissues. She sighed and reached for more power.
“Oh, goddess of poisons and creatures vile,” she whispered, not knowing that the being she called on was as real as the lady she served.
The goddess responded. She plucked at the knowledge in the child’s mind and found it lacking. She felt the overloading magick, and wondered what price she could extract from the child’s soul, or the goddess the child served. Such debts would one day need to be repaid. With an effort, she reached for the poison through Althessa’s fingertips, touched and tasted it, and almost died.
Fear from her close brush with destruction startled her. Never had she had cause to fear a toxin, a venom, or a poison. Never had she nearly died from something that should have stood within her realm. She felt herself trembling, felt her power weaken. She sensed the taint of undeath and corrupted power within the venom’s bonds and called upon the goddess of necromancers.
On the world below her, Althessa struggled to draw the poison from the muscles and flesh she had healed, and Faran sought to clear it from the strands. Neither of them noticed how their own flesh was darkening, nor did they feel how the heat of disassembling magic was rising. It created a light in the forest, one which rose to meet the sun. It enveloped the children, making them little more than silhouettes in a flaring orange haze.
The goddess of poisons completed her conference and turned her attention to the spark of life that was Althessa. Beside her, the goddess of necromancers did the same.
The poison had almost completed its work. The magic that made up the being of the beast was nearly frayed beyond repair. Faran’s efforts made little change to the inevitability of its destruction.
The goddesses did not pause. They would work through both fledgling mage and rising priestess. They joined their power and wove it. They sent the knowledge and the ability to wield their gift. They would extract a price for their services later—if the pair survived.
* * *
Rowany raised her head from the weapon in the undead’s outstretched hand. There was magic in the air. She could sense it. She shook herself. Nonsense! There was no way that she could sense the arcane. Her senses were tuned to the use of priestly magic, and that alone.
Nevertheless...
There were footsteps coming through the forest, unconcealed and unconcerned. Rowany looked briefly towards them. The villagers had arrived. Rowany frowned. Hadn’t the laird ordered them to push on toward the river?
The laird thought so too. He was hurrying to meet them, a look like thunder on his face. His expression said that the priest he had set to be their guide had better have a good explanation.
The sense of power drew at Rowany until she could not ignore it. Better she should find out who wielded this much magic so close to them, than they be taken unawares. She stood, dusting dead leaves and polluted snow from her knees.
Voices were raised behind her. Althessa glanced towards them. Faran’s brother, Jomack stood, face-to-face with his laird, as confrontational as she’d ever seen him. The priest who had been tasked with leading the villagers was standing in between, one hand on each man’s chest. Jomack, having spoken, was staring across the clearing of purified dead. He was staring in the direction of the magic Rowany sensed.
Her gaze must have alerted him, for he looked briefly in her direction. Their eyes met.
“You feel it too,” he said, coming towards her.
“You feel it too!” he repeated, his voice rising.
It was true; she could feel it, and it was not arcane alone. Mingled within the maelstrom of power was the gifting of the gods.
Surely,she thought, surely no human can withstand such power, let alone wield it with success.
Her thoughts turned abruptly to her apprentice. She looked around the clearing.
“Althessa?” she called. “Althessa?”
There was no reply. Jomack followed her gaze.
“Faran’s missing as well,” he said.
They spoke no more, but turned as one towards the forest and the rising crescendo of magic. Behind them someone called their names. They did not hear, focusing all their senses on the maelstrom ahead. Without waiting for more, they began to run, passing through the guardian bushes and a thicket of trees, neither of them noticing, or needing to see, the faint trail the children had left. They passed the place the children had saved the wounded fairy without registering it with their eyes.
The light from beyond the clearing blinded them. Jomack would have rushed into it if Rowany hadn’t laid a hand on his arm.
“It will do them no good if you perish now,” she said, and he came to an unwilling halt.
Slowly, they approached the glare and noticed a lesser glare beside it. The fairy had found the strength to fight for his beast.
He stood to one side of the rising ball of magic and tried to contain it. The strands of his power were a cool, green web against the orange fire before him. He did not look at them as they approached, but addressed them, just the same.
“Do not come closer,” he ordered with the confidence of one used to command. “The gods do as much as they can.”
Rowany sent a prayer to Beresia and realized that her goddess had been present all along. She reached for the calming power the goddess sent, and shaped it to match the web the fairy wielded.
Jomack stood with his hands at his side. There was nothing he could do. His younger brother was barely visible within the sphere of arcane light, and there was nothing he could do! He took a step toward the fire. There was a muttered oath from behind him and heavy steps joined the sound of Rowany’s chant. Strong arms wrapped themselves around him and threw him to the ground.
“Let me up!” he roared. “That’s my brother in there and my sister! I have to save them. In the name of the gods let me up.”
“It can’t be done,” the man above him grunted as Jomack struggled to stand.
“When this is done…” Jomack began, rolling to one side.
Someone else hit him, grabbing his arm and dragging him away from the magic.
“Don’t make threats you’ll regret later,” a new voice ordered.
“It’s Althessa! And Faran!” Joram cried, startled to hear his voice cracking into sobs, “Damn you. It’s Althessa and Faran.”
The weight on his back was unrelenting. The hands that had drawn his arms behind him did not let go.
“Let the gods do what they will,” the newer voice said. “This is not for the likes of us.”
Jomack raised his head and looked towards the barely visible forms behind their curtain of power. There was nothing he could do. He listened, becoming aware of other voices, of his mother trying to soothe his other sister’s tears, of the hiss of steel clearing a scabbard. Neia’s voice cracked sharply in an oath that brought silence to the sudden surge of footsteps at the clearing’s edge.
“Be still! All of you!” she ordered. “This is work for magicians and priests, or would you all perish attempting at a rescue you cannot hope to achieve.”
There was a murmur of assent at this, but she snapped at them.
“Well I, for one, will not jeopardize the children’s lives by meddling with something the gods have in their hands, nor will I allow you to risk their lives so you can all be dead heroes.”
Jomack heard someone move forwards, and sensed his sister’s abrupt turn to face them. He relaxed when he heard Taloc’s voice answer her.
“I’ll stand with you,” her fiancé told her, then raised his voice to address the others. “No one will interfere in the work of gods and mages.”
Jomack heard the priestess gasp. One of the men on his back groaned. He turned his attention to the children wrapped in magical fire.
One of them had dropped one of the strands they had been holding. The strand had coiled back like a snake and struck at them. One of the voices within the maelstrom faltered and the sphere about them flared more brightly.
The drama took all their attention, and no one noticed the sound of a myriad wings descend about them. Suddenly two score of green nets wrapped themselves about the sphere.
Jomack tore his eyes from the children within it and looked up. He felt the hands on his wrists grow slack, but did nothing except close his mouth.
They were surrounded by faeries; an entire tribe of them. The small folk seemed not to notice them. Each faerie was concentrating on the sphere, trying to cool the rampaging power that flared within it. Each tiny creature was ignoring the humans, risking itself to tame the magical fury before them.
Very slowly, Jomack turned his head back to his siblings. The sphere about them was losing some of its orange hue. It was fading, becoming a crisp, yellow-gold. Jomack began to relax. Whatever the faeries were doing, it was working.
Within the sphere Faran and Althessa were having more success with their weaving. Wild strands of magic were submitting to their chants, allowing themselves to be drawn back into the creature they had formed before.
Jomack allowed his cheek to touch the ground. He watched as the green nets glowed against the golden sphere. He saw what happened when one of the children fumbled the words of their chant.
A dozen strands tore loose from the creature they were trying to save and spun into the air about Althessa’s head. There was an oath of startlement, followed by Neia’s sharp cry of annoyance and a ground-shaking thump.
The hands on Jomack’s wrists tightened as he struggled to reach his sister.
“Don’t even think of it,” came a warning rumble from above him.
Jomack thought he heard tears in the voice, but he stilled, only raising his head to watch the children in the sphere. The magic roared, like a fire that had a pine branch added. The faerie webs split and snapped, recoiling about their casters in vengeful fury.
There was a collective cry of startlement from the little folk, followed by the sound of humming wings. The fey settled to the ground to wait. Some were tending comrades that had fallen from the recoiling of the nets. All of them were weeping.
“By the gods, Faran, let it go,” Jomack whispered, as he watched his brother collect another of the strands and begin to meld it with the magic Althessa was casting.
“Althessa,” he groaned moments later when he saw the magic that entwined her biting into her arms and splitting the material of her robe across her back.
He groaned again when his sister gasped in the middle of a chant. The magic around her burst into the spikes of vengeful flame, and her robe began to burn.
Jomack renewed his struggle and, catching his captors by surprise, managed to free one of his arms. It was short-lived. Someone stood on it and someone else pushed his face into the forest floor.
He forced himself to relax. Even if he couldn’t help, he still wanted to be able to see. The hand on his head relented and he raised his head.
“Enough!”
The new voice made him drag his eyes from the burning fires. He sensed the men above him tense.
“Enough,” the voice repeated, and it was a voice he did not know.
Jomack turned his eyes towards it, and saw an old man carrying a greenwood staff.
Before anyone could stop him, the old man stepped into the magical sphere. Energy roared around him, engulfing him beyond the sight of eyes. Joram found his sight blurred by tears of pain. Several villagers cried out in surprise.
The brightness did not lessen, rather it intensified until no one was sure what they were seeing. They only knew that the burning flames across Althessa’s back were drawn to the column of power the old man had become and were absorbed by it.
There was silence for a long moment, then the power reached towards the children once more. Joram tensed, relaxing only when the power passed into their hands and let them weave it into, and around, the creature on the ground before them.
It was like watching his mother spin. The column drew the sphere’s strands into itself, rewove them and sent them back to Althessa and Faran to knit back into the creature.
The beast on the ground grew. It began to glow. Slowly it roused itself and stood, somewhat unsteadily, on four feet. Wings sprouted from its shoulders—giant, feathery things that seemed blown by an invisible breeze. Faran unwrapped the magic wound around himself, and passed it into the column before taking it back and blending into airy feathers. Once the last of the rampant magic was soothed into finding a home, the column unraveled itself.
The sun was fading by the time the last of the column’s power had been dispersed, and they were once more looking at an old man with a greenwood staff.
The beast on the ground stepped towards Althessa and Faran, placing its great head against their foreheads. It rested there for a long moment before stepping past them to the warrior that stood beyond them.
It came to his chest, if you did not include the wings. He knelt before it and spoke in a tongue none of them understood. There were tears in his eyes as it placed its face against his in reply, and then silence.
When they drew apart it was to face the man with the staff. Fey and beast approached with footsteps still weak from what had gone before. The man waited. When they reached him, they both bowed.
“Our debt is great.”
“You will pay it in time.”
They paused, looking at each other in solemn understanding. Words, it seemed, would have been inadequate for what passed between them. Silence held the clearing. The warrior and his beast stood and stared at the old man. The old man kept their gaze, trapped within his own.
Faran and Althessa sat, still too stunned by what had transpired to move, their skin glowing gently from the aftermath of magic.
The villagers, Jomack and the laird found it impossible to move, or speak, the enormity of what had passed suddenly falling on their minds like thunder.
The fey were too busy tending their wounded and waiting for the old man to say something, to do anything but cast apprehensive glances towards the human-folk that had come into their lands.
When the silence was broken it was by the whirr of small wings and a frantic cry in faerie tongue. Tension came with him. Even the faerie wounded struggled to rise, their small hands reaching for weapons, their faces sudden masks of anger and destruction.
The old man’s voice stilled them, his words leaving no other option than obedience.
“Follow me,” he said. “The forest will fend for itself.”
“Trust me,” he continued when the fey folk hesitated. “I have called and the forest has answered. The forest will be safe today and hereafter. There are forces greater than any of us to protect it. The king’s men will find little to please them here.”
Again the faeries hesitated. This time they looked to their queen. She rose from beside one of her warriors and drifted on silent wings towards the druid.
The messenger’s wings beat the air in agitation, but his voice remained silent as he waited for his queen to speak.
She chose the common tongue and her words were clear in the winter afternoon.
“We will do as you say Protector of the Forest. We will follow you and listen to your advice.”
The protector nodded.
“It shall be as you have commanded, your Highness. Follow me.”
The fey moved, sheathing their weapons and summoning strange creatures to their side. The villagers looked in confusion to their lord.
The protector stepped towards the children and took them each by a hand.
“Come with me,” he said. “I will keep you safe.”
“We have a new guide.”
The laird’s voice was calm but the order in its tone was unmistakable. He released Jomack’s wrists and stood.
“Follow the Forest’s Protector,” he said, ushering his people before him. His guard hung back beside him. They were the last to move through the winter trees.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Magick on the Forest's Edge is available as a stand-alone short story at the following links: books2read.com/u/mvK7O6.
You can also find Kristine Kathryn Rusch's latest free short story over on her blog: kriswrites.com. Why don't you go and check it out?
June 30, 2019
Carlie's Chapter 7 - Dear Tiger: Don't Look Back
LAST WEEK, Simone revealed that Odyssey were trying to reach Tiger before FedExplore did. This week, Tiger reveals he got off-world just in time to avoid being captured by the same beings that killed his parents.Chapter 7 – A Second Incursion
Hey, Simone,
Got your letter. Have to say, you’re getting really good at this sneaky I.T. thing. Those tracking programs at FedExplore don’t stand a chance.I’m glad your parents are okay—and I hope they stay that way. I’ve been watching the news, but haven’t seen much… except for what happened on Tarvesh. You heard about that, right?The newsies are calling it an ‘incursion’, but I think it’s something else. Anyway, I was heading for the shuttle to take me up to the next freighter I’d signed up for, when the world did this weird shuddery thing.At first, I stopped, but then this warm breeze blew out of nowhere, and I knew what it was. I ran, Simone, and I don’t think I’ve run so fast in my life. Everyone else around me stopped, and looked around, like rabbits looking for danger, but I bolted for the shuttle bay.I figured if I was lucky, then the shuttle crew would be almost ready to launch, and we could be out of there before the portal opened and the first alien stepped through.I was just lucky the freighter captain I’d been with, was happy enough with my work that he hooked me up with one of the local transport companies. Gave me a good reference, too. If he hadn’t done that, I might have been in the main terminal, where everyone goes to look for work on a ship… or to find cheap passage.The main terminal was where the portal opened up. Even if those creatures didn’t chase me to the shuttle, the screams of everyone around the portal did. I keep hearing them, even when I’m awake. It’s like they’re on a loop inside my head.I didn’t even go back to try and save them. I just got the shuttle crew onto the shuttle, and into the air—and I’m not proud of that. I’m really not. We saw what happened afterward. None of us are sleeping well.Thing is, I don’t know why they chose Tarvesh. Was it just a coincidence? Did Tarvesh have ruins, too? Because I wasn’t there long enough to really find out, and, right now, I don’t want to look.I’m scared, Simone. I’m so scared I haven’t told the captain anything. Not Deskeden. Not running away. Not anything, although I think he knows something is up. I just don’t want to say anything, until I know for sure, but I think those aliens are chasing me.Maybe even tracking me, even though I can’t see how.Anyway, they don’t seem to be able to find me in space, so I figure the captain might not need to know. As long as I’m out here, and not on some world, I’m safe, and the same should go for you and your parents.You need to talk to Odyssey, and ask them to get your parents off Sharvin. If it’s not me, and it’s something to do with the ruins, then you definitely need to get your family off the planet. Either way, once they’re on a ship, they should be safe from whatever these aliens want from us, because I don’t think it’s good.And you should do the same—and I mean with, or without Odyssey. Get off-planet, if you aren’t already, and stay on a ship, or an orbital. I’m not even sure if you’d be safe on a moon, so I’m not suggesting that, but a ship or an orbital, those seem to be a safe bet.I’m thinking Odyssey can help you with that—they do own cruiseliners, after all.And take care, Simone.I’m going to try to make a go of it out here.I’ll try to get to you, just as soon as things settle down with FedExplore, and I can move a bit more freely. All my love,
T.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The complete series is available as short, individual ebooks, and will become available as an omnibus, later this year. In the meantime, you can find them on this blog, until one week after the last chapter in the last book of the series has been posted, at which point this series will be taken down, and a new series serialised on site.
books2read.com/u/4Awrze
books2read.com/u/mgrxdR
books2read.com/u/4DoG8D
books2read.com/u/b5Mng1
books2read.com/u/3GYBla
books2read.com/u/4782k8
Hey, Simone,Got your letter. Have to say, you’re getting really good at this sneaky I.T. thing. Those tracking programs at FedExplore don’t stand a chance.I’m glad your parents are okay—and I hope they stay that way. I’ve been watching the news, but haven’t seen much… except for what happened on Tarvesh. You heard about that, right?The newsies are calling it an ‘incursion’, but I think it’s something else. Anyway, I was heading for the shuttle to take me up to the next freighter I’d signed up for, when the world did this weird shuddery thing.At first, I stopped, but then this warm breeze blew out of nowhere, and I knew what it was. I ran, Simone, and I don’t think I’ve run so fast in my life. Everyone else around me stopped, and looked around, like rabbits looking for danger, but I bolted for the shuttle bay.I figured if I was lucky, then the shuttle crew would be almost ready to launch, and we could be out of there before the portal opened and the first alien stepped through.I was just lucky the freighter captain I’d been with, was happy enough with my work that he hooked me up with one of the local transport companies. Gave me a good reference, too. If he hadn’t done that, I might have been in the main terminal, where everyone goes to look for work on a ship… or to find cheap passage.The main terminal was where the portal opened up. Even if those creatures didn’t chase me to the shuttle, the screams of everyone around the portal did. I keep hearing them, even when I’m awake. It’s like they’re on a loop inside my head.I didn’t even go back to try and save them. I just got the shuttle crew onto the shuttle, and into the air—and I’m not proud of that. I’m really not. We saw what happened afterward. None of us are sleeping well.Thing is, I don’t know why they chose Tarvesh. Was it just a coincidence? Did Tarvesh have ruins, too? Because I wasn’t there long enough to really find out, and, right now, I don’t want to look.I’m scared, Simone. I’m so scared I haven’t told the captain anything. Not Deskeden. Not running away. Not anything, although I think he knows something is up. I just don’t want to say anything, until I know for sure, but I think those aliens are chasing me.Maybe even tracking me, even though I can’t see how.Anyway, they don’t seem to be able to find me in space, so I figure the captain might not need to know. As long as I’m out here, and not on some world, I’m safe, and the same should go for you and your parents.You need to talk to Odyssey, and ask them to get your parents off Sharvin. If it’s not me, and it’s something to do with the ruins, then you definitely need to get your family off the planet. Either way, once they’re on a ship, they should be safe from whatever these aliens want from us, because I don’t think it’s good.And you should do the same—and I mean with, or without Odyssey. Get off-planet, if you aren’t already, and stay on a ship, or an orbital. I’m not even sure if you’d be safe on a moon, so I’m not suggesting that, but a ship or an orbital, those seem to be a safe bet.I’m thinking Odyssey can help you with that—they do own cruiseliners, after all.And take care, Simone.I’m going to try to make a go of it out here.I’ll try to get to you, just as soon as things settle down with FedExplore, and I can move a bit more freely. All my love,
T.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The complete series is available as short, individual ebooks, and will become available as an omnibus, later this year. In the meantime, you can find them on this blog, until one week after the last chapter in the last book of the series has been posted, at which point this series will be taken down, and a new series serialised on site.
books2read.com/u/4Awrze 
books2read.com/u/mgrxdR 
books2read.com/u/4DoG8D
books2read.com/u/b5Mng1
books2read.com/u/3GYBla
books2read.com/u/4782k8June 25, 2019
Wednesday's Verse - Captive on International TV
This week’s verse moves from a sci-fantasy verse about a colony waiting its fate to a piece of social commentary about a terrorist incident that happened way back in 2004. It is taken from
365 Days of Poetry
, a collection of mixed-genre poetry released in 2015.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Captive on International TV
Eight men,
paraded on international TV,
like a half-dead sparrow
allowed to flutter
while its captor yowls,
drawing the attention
of
the world.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------You can find the first two poetry collections at the links below - although there are plans to reissue them with more genre-appropriate covers in the future. The third collection will be released later in the year.
books2read.com/u/mVLQZb
books2read.com/u/bxgyLd
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Captive on International TV
Eight men,
paraded on international TV,
like a half-dead sparrow
allowed to flutter
while its captor yowls,
drawing the attention
of
the world.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------You can find the first two poetry collections at the links below - although there are plans to reissue them with more genre-appropriate covers in the future. The third collection will be released later in the year.
books2read.com/u/mVLQZb
books2read.com/u/bxgyLdJune 24, 2019
Tuesday's Short - Luck Among Servants
This week’s short story takes us from the science fiction story of a pilot whose ship crashes through the vortex into another dimension to the fantasy tale of a very lucky servant. Welcome to
Luck Among Servants.
I’d always considered myself one of the lucky ones, lucky that the slavers had taken me and left my family, lucky to have found a master as kind as the one I had, just… lucky, so, when my master asked me to ride one of the many-legged spurline on an early morning errand, I considered myself lucky to have the honour. I never thought what it might be like when my luck ran out, and my master wasn’t around to intervene…Luck Among Servants
Some say that to be a servant, you have to be unlucky in the first place. I would say that only holds true if you are a slave, and even then there is the master to consider. In a household such as mine, I’d argue that the one you serve is the deciding factor on your prospects, but I could be wrong. I chose to be a servant rather than a master, a slave—according to some—over being free. And I have very few regrets.
But that is enough of this journal. The master calls and it is time to serve.
And with that, I sealed my diary with a spell, and locked it away in the compartment my master had commissioned on pretence it was for himself. Glancing out into the corridor, I saw it was barely light, and knew the day was going to be a long one. I debated a quick wash, but the child who’d been sent to fetch me, was hopping from one foot to the other, while trying for a look of calm patience. She’d have been funny, if it wasn’t for the urgency in her eyes. I pulled on clean robes and reached for my sandals, instead.
“The master says you’ll need leggings and boots.”
Startled, I glanced up and saw the girl was in earnest. Taking my boots, I opened a drawer, pulling out the pair of socks and the trous the master had ordered.
“Is there anything else?” I asked.
She shuffled, looking uncomfortable, and staring at her feet, while I pulled on trousers and socks.
“You’re not allowed to say?”
I watched as the tips of her ears went pink, and then hurried to get my boots on my feet. Reaching for my travel pouch, a belt and a heavy outer robe, I noted the faint slump of her shoulders as she relaxed, heard the barely audible sigh of relief.
“Have I forgotten anything?” I asked, and watched as she glanced surreptitiously at the hidden drawer, before blushing again. Odd that the master had shared our secret with her.
I took my diary, feeling a strange sense of foreboding deep in my gut. It began as a ripple, and then unfurled like a slow blooming flower. When I had stowed the diary in the travel pouch, the girl turned away, and led me down the corridor.
She did not take me to the master’s quarters as I expected, but straight to the courtyard where there was a multi-legged spurline waiting. I risked a glance at the master’s windows, on the other side of the yard, and caught a brief shift in the drapes, saw the master’s silhouette, one hand raised in farewell.
I did not like spurline, and the girl was clearly nervous, for she stopped in the doorway and waved me towards the beast with an impatient flick of her wrist. I risked one more glance at the master’s window, but the drapes had fallen, and there was nothing to see.
“Where am I to go?” I asked, and she gave a heavy sigh, and pointed to the man standing by the reptile’s head. “He’ll tell me?”
She nodded, and stepped back to let me pass. As soon as I was over the threshold, she closed the door, letting it push me the rest of the way into the courtyard.
I didn’t bother stopping to scold her. Everything so far hinted at haste and secrecy. The note the spurline’s groom handed me was brief, and to the point.
Kaskadir, it said. The blue tree by the lagoon.
Anyone else reading that would have thought the master meant a tree by a lake in the Kaskadir Forest, but I knew he meant the Blue Tree Inn which stands beside a duck pond in Kaskadir village. We had joked about it when we visited, but it was odd he didn’t name it. Odder still that he had not given me instructions on what to do when I arrived.
I turned to the groom, intending to ask him for further instructions, but he took me by the arm and manhandled me towards the saddle.
“Hey!” I shouted, and he picked me up, and dumped me in the saddle, making the spurline hiss with irritation. “Hey! You have some explaining to do!”
I shouted it as loudly as I could, and he gave me a smile and a wink almost too fast to see—and then he pushed the reins into my hands, before slapping the spurline, hard, on the neck. It reared with a ferocious snarl, and would have lashed out at him with its foreclaws had I not jerked the reins, forcing it to come around or lose balance.
I heard the groom cry out, but I had no time to stop; I could see the ridges behind the spurline’s jaws starting to fan upwards, and knew I had very little time to get the creature back under control and moving, before it could kill the handler. I did not know what had made him take such a risk, but it meant the master’s business was urgent indeed.
I could feel the weight of the message bag strap that he’d slipped over my head in our tussle. It pulled at my neck, and I was very glad he’d thought to stuff the bag down the front of my tunic and out of sight. Whatever was in it was as important as his life—and not just in the opinion of my master, but in the opinion of the groom as well, because no one treated a spurline as he had, unless they were suicidal; the reptiles were not forgiving.
Keeping the reins tight, I managed to get the beast turned and pointed towards the gates. As if by signal, they swung wide, both inner and outer gates, another indication of my mission’s urgency, since one was meant to bar entry until the other was closed—and especially at night. I urged the beast towards them, praying the groom would do nothing more to attract its attention.
The spurline tilted its head in his direction as it ran, but didn’t try to double back. My guess was that its handler was lying flat on the ground and pretending to be dead. I prayed he wasn’t truly so, for such foolhardy courage might be needed—and such loyalty. No man braves a spurline’s wrath for someone to whom he’s not loyal, and I did not want my master to lose a man he might need for his protection.
I hurried the spurline into the night, remembering why I loved them as much as I loathed them—their speed. The master kept a small clutch for messengers, but he rarely asked his messengers to dare the spurlines’ wrath. I crouched low in the saddle and guided the creature out onto the road. Once we were on the right path, I urged it to go even faster.
“Run, my beauty. Run,” I whispered. “The master needs us.”
And it obeyed, its body flowing beneath me as it stretched into the gait that had earned its kind the nickname “River Wind”. Together, we flowed across the miles to a crossroads, where we took the fork to Kaskadir. Beneath my legs, I could feel the spurline’s muscles ripple, its skin heating with the exercise, but its movements smooth as silk. It never faltered. Dawn was touching the sky by the time we left the hill country, and began to climb the steppes.
The trees grew closer together, and the road narrowed. Cliffs rose on one side of us, or dropped away on the other. Small rivulets cut trenches across our path, and were bridged by stone or make-shift constructions of logs and branches. The spurline slowed, and turned its head, glancing back at me with one gold-flecked eye.
I wondered what had troubled it, and then it pointed itself forward and surged to even greater speed, barking as it went. The sound startled me, and I looked around, tightening the reins and curling my hands under the front edge of the saddle.
The bark was an alarm call, but I could not tell to whom the creature was calling. Did it mean to warn me? Or was it warning something else? I tried to remember the little I knew about the reptiles. Where they came from. What they feared. But my mind was a blank, so I clung to the saddle, and tried to keep an eye on the countryside around us.
The spurline’s gait grew erratic. It surged forward in a sudden rush, and slowed, crabbing sideways, or moving diagonally. I recognised the tactic; it was like a skink, or jo-deer avoiding a hunter, except a skink would have sought cover in the shadow of the trees overhanging the road, and a jo-deer would have left the openness of the path to vanish into the bushes lining it.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind, than the spurline glanced back at me, and made a curious chirring sound. It reminded me of the noise made by the night geckos that sometimes ran across my walls, and I did not know what it meant. All I could think to do was grip more tightly with my legs and tighten my hold on the saddle front. And that was all the signal the spurline needed.
It raced forward, and then jolted sideways and up the cliff leading up from the road. I thought about shouting, but was too busy holding on to do more. I held fast to the saddle front, and pressed myself tight against the spurline’s spine. It made no sound as its claws gripped the rock face and it scampered up the vertical cliff exactly like the skink I had remembered.
Fortunately, it did not stop when it reached the overhanging trees. My legs were growing tired and the muscles in my shoulders and arms were beginning to tremble by then, and I was very glad when it rippled up and over the top of the cliff and wound its way into a thicket of bushes. It did not wait for my signal to stop, but drew to a halt and sank close to the ground. I decided to follow its example, and slid off its back, landing in the thick forest grass beside it.
Again, it made a sound I hadn’t heard before, this one a soft clicking noise. It didn’t give me time to wonder what it meant, but used the two legs closest to pull me against its side. I opened my mouth, drawing breath to speak, but it turned its head and hissed at me, giving me a close look at its jaws. I closed my mouth again, and leant against it, noticing how the branches of the bushes and trees formed a thick roof over our heads. I could not even see the sky.
Shortly afterwards, a shadow blotted out the filtered light, and the spurline tensed beneath me. I pressed in closer to its body, stroking a hand over its skin as though to soothe it. In truth, I think I was soothing myself.
As suddenly as it had come, the shadow was gone, overflying us without stopping. I felt the spurline relax, but not by much. It made the clicking sound again, and curved its head back to nudge me. I took the hint, and clambered back into the saddle, gathering the reins and crouching low. I watched as the spurline tilted its head from one side to the other, the fan-like ridge behind its jaws lifting and falling as it listened.
I listened, too, hearing the silence of the forest pressing in around us. It took a few heartbeats for me to realise that it was the silence the spurline was listening to. I settled in the saddle and waited. Twice more, the shadow passed, and it was not alone. Whatever, or whoever, was hunting us had company.
I do not know how long we waited in the shadows, but the light through the leaves had changed from the soft tones of morning to the intensity of full day, before the spurline moved. It wove its way out of the thicket and back to the cliff, and then it halted, and turned its head to me.
I looked down at the road, and decided it would be more prudent to follow the clifftop. If the flyers returned to see if they had missed us on the way to Kaskadir, we would be easy to see on the road, no matter what the traffic was; spurline were not the mount of choice for most travellers. It turned out to be a good decision.
The spurline moved into the shelter of the tree line several times over the course of the afternoon, and I began to wonder how it could tell what was above. I didn’t know enough of them to know if they were hunted from the sky, but it would explain the creature’s caution. Whatever it was, we were overlooking Kaskadir by dusk in spite of it.
We’d travelled most of the way parallel to the road, guided partly by the sound of travellers, or glimpses of the pathway through the trees, and partly by the shadows flying overhead. I figured they knew our destination, and would be travelling towards it… at least for some of the way. They were both a comfort and a worry.
We came upon the town from a different direction to the road, and I was alerted to the ambush that waited there, as I gazed back along the way we should have come. It made me wonder who had known we were on our way—and what I had that could be of such value.
Leading the spurline into a copse of trees below our overlook on a ridge leading down from the forest, I pulled the bag from beneath my tunic, and stood by the spurline’s head.
“What do you think?” I said. “Do we take a look and see what all the fuss is about? See if we can get a clue as to what to do next?”
The spurline looked into my face, and then down at the bag in my hand. It stretched out its nose to sniff the fabric, nudging it gently as it snuffed and snuffled its way from the drawstring to the hemline. Once there, it snuffled its way back up again, pausing here and there to draw deeper breaths. About half-way to the top, it drew back its head and sneezed, then reached forward again.
I watched as its top lip curled, heard the series of low chirring clicks that signalled anger, and then it snatched the bag from my fingers and, with a toss of its head, flung it down the hill.
“Hey!” I cried, running after it, but the spurline seized my collar as I passed, pulling me off my feet with the strength of its grip.
“But we’re almost there!” I shouted, sitting up from where I’d landed. “We have to take it to the Maple.”
Seeing me about to get to my feet, the spurline planted a foot on my chest, pinning me to the ground. It raised its head and made its strange, barking call again. I wondered why, but didn’t wait. The creature wasn’t hurting me, so I tried pushing its foot off my chest.
It didn’t budge. I tried peeling its claws back one at a time, so I could wriggle free, only to hear the strange growling chur it had made before as it swung its muzzle around. I saw its nostrils flare as our noses touched, and it placed a second foot on me. This one covered my belly, the claws curling around my waist and thighs.
It growled again, and looked away. Gazing up at it, it took me several heartbeats to realise the spurline was staring in the direction in which it had thrown the bag, and then it looked to the sky. I tensed, but it tightened its claws, and brought more weight to bear, then it raised its head to the sky, and barked, again.
I recognised thatbark; it was calling something… or someone. Seeing the way it was gazing at the sky, I wondered why it had suddenly decided to call in the flyers it had been dodging all day.
“Let me go!” I said, slapping at its claws, but it ignored me. “You treacherous beast! Let. Me. Go.”
I tried to wrench myself clear, but it had too strong a grip on me.
A shape swooped overhead, and I realised that I’d been seen from the ambush by the road. This time, the spurline didn’t try to hide. It followed the form as it descended, moving its head to trace its path All the while, its hold on me stayed firm.
I tried rolling, but this only made it close its grip, and I felt a claw slide into my flesh, as it growled. A shadow passed over us, as I froze.
“Please let me go.” I could hear tears in my voice, terror and pain, all things we were instructed must never be shown in the presence of these reptiles. “Please.”
I tried pushing at the claw that held me tightest, but this only earned me another growl, and one of the talons on its other foot bit into my thigh. I stared up at it, and bit my lip, watching as the spurline settled onto its haunches and raised its head. It barked again, and the shadow came in to land—a winged cat, carrying someone on its back.
I had not known that great cats could fly. I looked from the spurline to the cat, to the rider that dismounted, and I could not move. My mount held me too tightly for that. I felt my breathing turn to short gasps of fear, flexed muscles against the spurline’s claws, and tried to contain my terror. Cats. Of course, cats would hunt the spurline. Of course they’d be as big, again. Of course there would be those who rode them. Now, why hadn’t I thought of that?
I didn’t know what to do, or say. I had never heard the like. I had only watched the cats hunting skinks in the master’s garden. Trapped beneath the spurline’s claws, I knew just how the skink might feel. I watched the rider come, saw him stop five paces from the spurline and stretch out his hand.
“What have you there?” the man asked, in gentle tones. “Turned on your rider, did you? Summoned me from the sky, after hiding… her, all day? What would make you do a thing like that, hey?”
The spurline ducked its head, resting its muzzle briefly in the rider’s hand, and then it turned its head and gestured with its jaw in the direction of the bag. The rider glanced down at me, and then to where the spurline indicated.
“I’ll come back,” he said, and I didn’t know whether to be grateful, or even more afraid than I already was.
The spurline watched him go, its neck ridges moving gently up and down. It turned its head to track his movements, as I listened to him walk a few paces, and then stop. There was a brief pause, and then the spurline made the same soft clicking it had used to warn me of the flyers.
“It’s dangerous?” the man asked, and the spurline clicked again. “How dangerous?”
This time the spurline’s warning bark turned into a shout.
“No! Don’t touch it!”
I felt the claws vanish, but not before one final squeeze, that made me cry out in pain. I felt blood spread down my side, burn through my leg, and knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Not that I could move. I was watching as the spurline vanished, the bulk of its form dissolving into men… rather, into reptiles that walked upright, one of whom turned to look down at me.
“Foolish child,” it said, and placed a clawed foot on my chest.
Foolish child? I thought. I wasn’t the one who’d been ridden all day.
I watched as the lizardman who’d appeared in place of the spurline’s head, walked away.
“Chothra,” it said, and I knew the rider paused.
“You’re sure?”
“The smell is quite distinctive, my lord—especially to a spurline.”
“And the courier?”
“No more than a pawn. She was to meet you at the Maple… or to be found, and brought to you.”
The rider gave a short bark of laughter that held no mirth.
“The old unwitting assassin, hey?”
I listened, but did not want to believe. An unwitting assassin? Me? The master wouldn’t.
“Take a look. Tell me if you recognise her as one of Jovan’s folk.”
The rider came back into view, walking side by side with my spurline lizard man. I stared up at them both, wishing they were not so blurred.
“No,” the rider said, after bending close to study my face. “I have not seen her before. Is she new?”
“Not for him. We think he trafficks with the rodanion…”
I could not help it. I remembered the rodanion, had been incredibly grateful to be taken from their claws, incredibly relieved to be free of them—and then I’d felt lucky it was the master who had bought me, and not one of the green men from the plains, or the albinos from beneath the ground. I’d felt lucky to have such a kind master.
I felt a single tear escape my eye and trickle down the side of my face. The rider’s lips tightened, and he straightened up.
“He trafficks with the rodanion. It is enough.”
“But, my lord, we have no proof.”
“He tried to assassinate me. Isn’t that cause enough?”
I tried to follow them with my gaze, by my eyelids were growing heavy, so I let them close. In truth, I could not stop it happening. When I opened them again, I was in a bed, sandwiched between clean sheets and weighted down by blankets. Bandages wrapped my waist and leg, but I could move—as I discovered when a familiar growling chur greeted me as I opened my eyes.
I was out of the bed and on the floor in a tangle of sheets and blankets, scrambling backwards until I fetched up against a warm scaly hide. A second chur greeted me, and I felt teeth close over my hair and the nightshirt I didn’t remember putting on.
It lifted me off the floor, and I flailed, trying to break free, but my arms connected with nothing and one leg sang with pain, so I stopped. Looking around, I saw I was in a long room, set up with several beds like the one I’d been sleeping in. Beside each, was something like a furry spurline—not as big, and not with saddles, but sitting taller than the bed.
I wondered what they were, and saw movement at one end of the room.
“So, you are awake,”—that voice was familiar—“and causing trouble, already.”
I wanted to deny causing trouble, but my voice failed me. One of the first things the rodanions taught their slaves was not to speak, and I couldn’t bring myself to do so, now. I opened my mouth and closed it, several times, but decided silence was safer, and took refuge in staring at the floor. Eye contact was something else the rodanions discouraged.
“Leave,” the voice commanded, and the creature holding me, lowered me to the ground.
I backed up, until I felt warmth and fur at my back. The beast did not move, and I felt a weight settle on top of my head. Presumably the monster had rested its chin on me. The thought was strangely comforting.
I stared at the floor, until the speaker stood in front of me and curled a finger under my chin, lifting gently until I had to look him in the face. It was, I thought, the same rider from the… from when the spurline had turned against me.
“Remember me?” he asked, and I nodded, trying very hard not to meet his eyes.
He held out a hand, and, when I did not take it, reached out to take one of mine.
“Come with me,” he said, and led me from the room, slowing when I stumbled.
I saw his lips tighten, and flinched. They compressed even further, but he did not raise a hand in punishment.
“I am sorry you were hurt,” he said. “I did not realise…”
I shrugged. What was it to him, if I were hurt? Slaves were hurt all the time. When he saw I wasn’t going to say anything more, he took me to another room, one in which there was a table flanked by two chairs.
“Sit,” he said, and I obeyed. I nearly stood up and ran for the door, when he set my diary before me.
“You can read and write?” he asked, and I nodded.
He sighed.
“You must answer me with words, understood?” This time, it was an order, a command I dared not ignore, even with the absence of punishment, so far.
I nodded, and then hurried to speak.
“Yes,” I managed, and flinched, waiting for the blow to fall for not giving him a title I did not know.
He placed both his hands on the table.
“Jovan was your master,” he said, and looked at me. It took me a moment to realise he wanted an answer. Again, I risked the simplest reply—with no honorific.
“Yes.”
He placed his hand on the diary.
“Did he read this?”
“I think so.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“No.”
“Do you know why he chose you?”
“No.”
“It was not your task to take messages?”
“Not beyond the gates.”
“But you knew how to ride a spurline.”
“From before,” I said, and hunched in on myself, waiting for the blow to land; it was forbidden to speak of ‘before’.
“I am not going to hurt you,” he said, and I whimpered, waiting for him to begin what usually followed such words.
To my surprise, all that followed was an exasperated look, as though he knew what I expected, but he did not pursue it.
“If I said you were free to go and make a life for yourself, what would you do?” he asked, and I burst into tears, barely able to hear it, when he muttered, “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
He rested his head in his hands, for a long moment, and then looked at me.
“Did you know what you were given?” he asked, and I knew he meant when I left the master’s.
I shook my head.
“Speak!” The snapped command had me startle in fright.
“No, master!”
“Who were you going to meet at the Maple?”
“I don’t know. I was not told. There was a note.”
He nodded.
“We found the note.” He studied me for a long moment, then said, “Did you know we were told of your coming?”
“No.” My mind scrambled to keep up. I had suspected our pursuers knew of us. That they had been told was a suspicion I had been planning to report.
“Were you aware of what you were carrying?”
“No! A bag for someone. Nothing more.”
“Do you always open bags intended for someone else?”
I felt myself blushing to the roots of my hair, as I responded.
“No. I was hoping it might be a letter, with a name.”
“Why didn’t you wait until you reached the Maple?”
“I didn’t know I could. I was hoping the letter would give me a name and somewhere else to look.”
“But you know, now, that it wasn’t a letter, don’t you?”
I opened my mouth to deny it, but the exchange between the spurline lizardman and the rider returned to mind, so I nodded, following the gesture with a hasty, “Yes,” when he frowned.
“What is Chothra?” I ventured, when he didn’t immediately ask another question.
“Poison,” he said. “Opening the bag in the Maple would have killed every person in the room, and some on the street outside.”
It sank in that this meant I, too, would have died, that my master had meant for me to look inside the bag in an attempt to complete his mission, and that he had meantfor me to die. I felt tears well up in my eyes, and wondered what I had done to earn his wrath.
Hadn’t I served him well? Hadn’t I warned him when I saw the rodanions creeping up on the mansion?
I sat and stared at the man standing across the table, and it felt like my world had been torn apart.
“Are you my new master?” I asked, and saw the horror cross his face.
“We don’t have slaves here,” he said, when the silence had stretched between us—and I burst into tears anew.
“Then who do I belong to?” I asked. “Do I return to the master?”
I wondered if Jovan would take me back. He had intended me to die, after all—and I had failed to do as he’d intended. What sort of slave was I? I didn’t know what to do, what to think, or what to feel, could not imagine my place in the world. And then the man spoke again.
“What did you mean when you wrote you had chosen to be a servant, rather than a master?”
I stared at him. Now, what was I supposed to say in response to that? That the rodanion had sworn me to secrecy, had threatened death if I should tell? I said what I thought might answer the question without betraying them.
“My mother and sister are free,” I said, “because I am not. Such is the balance of the world.”
“Rodanion filth!” he said, a snarl in his voice. “Liars! I will destroy them all!”
I stared at him, horrified by his rage, but mortified by the meaning of his words.
“You mean they are not safe?” I asked, and the look he turned to me was bleak.
“Tell me,” he said, “did they give you a choice—enter into contract with them so your mother and sister did not have to go into slavery with you?”
“Yes,” I said, surprised because he had given me the exact words they used.
“Do you know that they give everyone this choice?” he asked, and his face was bleaker still.
“No,” I said. “I thought… I thought they only gave it to one member of each family.”
“And that they let the rest go free.”
“Yes. If we increased our value by learning to read and write, if we learnt our numbers, how to ride and… other things.” I could not bring myself to tell him of those ‘other’ skills, and, to my relief, he did not pry. “If we did all that, then our families would not be needed to meet the quota. Of course, I agreed.”
He sat down, then, something of his strength seeming to ebb, and I felt suddenly afraid.
“Did they lie?” I ask, and he nodded.
“They lied by making you believe your family would not go into slavery. What they said was that your family would not go into slavery with you. They sold them elsewhere, separately from you. Probably gave them the same choice as they gave you. It’s how they keep their prisoners quiet. Misusing the good-hearted to keep the peace.”
I wanted to shout, to scream, to call him a liar and run from the room. Instead, I sat on the seat opposite him and stared, too numb to speak or move. They had lied, and, perhaps, I had always known that, but to hear it… I cried, then, weeping for my lost family, for the suffering they had faced without me, and I without them. I didn’t know what to say. The man’s next question came almost as a relief.
“What did you mean by having no regrets?”
“I… I don’t know. I thought it was because…” My breath caught. “…because my family…”
I couldn’t say it. My family’s freedom had been a lie. The last ten years… wasted. I pressed my lips together, and stared at him. He stared back, and, finally, I had another question.
“What do I do, now?”
He rose from his seat, and crossed to the door.
“Come with me.”
I stood up and followed him, across the room, and out again. We traversed the same corridor, but did not return the way we had come. It came as no surprise, when we left the building and I found we were not in Kaskadir.
The mountains rose around us, and a waterfall thundered down a cliff at the end of the valley. We looked down on the river, which flowed along a gorge down one edge of the valley, and vanished around a bend. The forest cloaked the valley hills in shadows and green. Around me, the village buildings stood, sturdy structures of grey stone and dark timber, an entirely different place to my master’s compound on the downs.
The rider did not pause. He gave me no time to take in my surroundings, but strode down the centre of the village, leaving me to struggle in his wake. He had forgotten, too, my state of dress, and I shivered under the light tunic, missing the feel of breeches covering my legs.
We drew curious stares, but no one stopped us, until the man was a full building-length ahead. I kept following after him, but my strength was flagging, and there was no way I could keep up with his hurried strides. Finally, a woman appeared at the window of one of the buildings he was passing.
I saw her glance at him, and then back. She frowned when her gaze landed on me, and she vanished from view. A short time later, I saw her come out the door and hurry down the steps, walking quickly to intercept him before he could go much further.
She laid a hand on his upper arm, halting him mid-stride, as she looked up into his face. If I had not thought anyone would dare, I would have said she was scolding him, because he looked back at where I was coming up the street, and then hurried back to meet me.
“I am sorry,” he said, gesturing at my leg. “I had forgotten.”
I opened my mouth to tell him it was nothing to worry over, when the woman caught up with him, again laying a hand on his arm. He looked down at her, and sighed.
“This is Marriet. She tells me, I should at least let you dress properly, and that she’s the one to take care of you.”
I looked from him to Marriet, and then back again.
“And what do you say?” I asked, causing him to give a short humourless laugh.
“I say she is right, but that there are people you need to meet.”
His reply seemed to infuriate the woman and she blurted out, “Dressed like that?”
He looked at me, again, and shrugged.
“I meant quickly,” he said, and she subsided.
“At least let me fetch her a coat, then.”
“Fine,” he said, “but hurry.”
Once she had left us, and was hurrying back to the building from which she’d come, the rider turned about.
“This way,” he said. “Marriet will just have to catch up.”
He moved more slowly this time, keeping a hand on my shoulder as we. Marriet caught us, as we turned a corner and headed towards the edge of town.
“Are you sure?” she asked, looking in the direction we were going, as she helped me into the coat.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll let you know how it goes, when we’re done.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about this, but didn’t argue. Whatever lay ahead could be no worse than what lay behind. Besides, what other choice did I have?
We followed the road to the edge of the village, and then kept following it to where it turned into a narrow trail. At first, I thought it led to the water, but then I realised it took a parallel path to the river. We were just passing beneath the trees at the forest’s edge, when a commotion erupted behind us.
“Drannon!” someone called, but my guide merely walked faster.
I hurried after him, trying to keep up, and failing. Pain burned along the muscles in my injured leg, and the side where the bandages lay thickest felt strangely hot. My head was starting to pulse with a heartbeat of its own as he raced on ahead.
There was no point in trying to keep up. I just couldn’t; my body wouldn’t let me. Instead, I set myself the task of staying upright and following the path. Sooner or later, I would find him.
It ended up being sooner, rather than later. ‘Drannon’, if that was his name, returned back along the path, appearing from around a bend, with several figures accompanying him. At first I thought it was the shadows and dim forest light that made it hard to see them, but then I realised that those accompanying him blended with the trees. Knowing they would reach me soon, I stopped—and that was a mistake, because my leg gave out beneath me, and dumped me in the dirt.
They gathered around me, concern etching their faces, but I looked to the rider for direction. He reached down and drew me back to my feet, keeping one arm around my waist to steady me. I stared at the creatures with him, and felt just a little bit afraid.
“What do you say?” Drannon demanded. “Will she do?”
I glanced up at him in horror. He was selling me to the monsters?
Something of what I was thinking must have been clear by my expression.
“It’s not that,” he said. “You are not to be sold. These are the sapparine. They are lizardfolk, friends to the spurline. They wanted to meet with you.”
“Why?”
“You spoke to your mount, and were not afraid. If it had been a real spurline, it would have understood you.”
The world shifted, and I leant on him.
“What do you mean?”
This time, one of the sapparine answered me.
“He means you can direct the creatures with your mind, that you might be a liaison between us and the dragon.”
“Dragon?”
The sapparine looked at Drannon.
“You did not say she was slow of mind.”
“She is not,” Drannon replied, “but she is injured.”
As if to punctuate his words, another man came running down the path.
“Drannon!” he shouted. “She’s not well enough to leave the hospice. She’s…”
He stopped, as though noticing the sapparine for the first time.
“She…” he turned to the lizardfolk. “Forgive me for the interruption.”
I was feeling tired again. My leg was hurting, but leaning on Drannon meant I did not have to put any weight on it. My side throbbed, and a dull ache had spread throughout my stomach and back. If I did not sit down soon, I was going to fall down, Drannon’s support, or no. I just wanted them to get done with whatever it was they needed to decide.
“We will care for her from here,” said the sapparine, who had questioned my intelligence. “The wound was inflicted by one of our creatures.”
“But… but you don’t’ know anything about humans and how they heal,” he managed.
I saw the sapparines’ jaws drop in what I later learned was a reptilian smile.
“We know enough for this,” their leader said.
He looked straight at Drannon.
“We will return Marriet’s coat, when we have replaced it with something more suitable.”
“I… okay,” Drannon agreed, and passed me to the sapparine’s arms, when the lizardman reached for me.
I did not resist the transfer, or being lifted from the ground, and fell asleep on the journey back to their caverns. I cannot recall when, but I do know that I did not walk. I was carried, and, somewhere along the way, I realised I’d already met the three warriors walking beside the one who held me in his arms. They had been disguised as a spurline, right up until they’d call Drannon from the sky.
It was an interesting thought to fall asleep to, as interesting as waking wrapped in spider silk sheets, and cattail-stuffed blankets. Not as interesting as having to dress in a gown of spider silk and reed fibre, under their healer’s watchful eye.
“You will be fine,” he said, “but you will need a slow beginning, as you gain strength.”
“A slow beginning?”
“But a beginning nonetheless,” he told me. “And one, I think, that will compensate for the past.”
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Luck Among Servants is available as a stand-alone short story at the following links: books2read.com/u/me0v99.
You can also find Kristine Kathryn Rusch's latest free short story over on her blog: kriswrites.com. Why don't you go and check it out?
I’d always considered myself one of the lucky ones, lucky that the slavers had taken me and left my family, lucky to have found a master as kind as the one I had, just… lucky, so, when my master asked me to ride one of the many-legged spurline on an early morning errand, I considered myself lucky to have the honour. I never thought what it might be like when my luck ran out, and my master wasn’t around to intervene…Luck Among Servants
Some say that to be a servant, you have to be unlucky in the first place. I would say that only holds true if you are a slave, and even then there is the master to consider. In a household such as mine, I’d argue that the one you serve is the deciding factor on your prospects, but I could be wrong. I chose to be a servant rather than a master, a slave—according to some—over being free. And I have very few regrets.But that is enough of this journal. The master calls and it is time to serve.
And with that, I sealed my diary with a spell, and locked it away in the compartment my master had commissioned on pretence it was for himself. Glancing out into the corridor, I saw it was barely light, and knew the day was going to be a long one. I debated a quick wash, but the child who’d been sent to fetch me, was hopping from one foot to the other, while trying for a look of calm patience. She’d have been funny, if it wasn’t for the urgency in her eyes. I pulled on clean robes and reached for my sandals, instead.
“The master says you’ll need leggings and boots.”
Startled, I glanced up and saw the girl was in earnest. Taking my boots, I opened a drawer, pulling out the pair of socks and the trous the master had ordered.
“Is there anything else?” I asked.
She shuffled, looking uncomfortable, and staring at her feet, while I pulled on trousers and socks.
“You’re not allowed to say?”
I watched as the tips of her ears went pink, and then hurried to get my boots on my feet. Reaching for my travel pouch, a belt and a heavy outer robe, I noted the faint slump of her shoulders as she relaxed, heard the barely audible sigh of relief.
“Have I forgotten anything?” I asked, and watched as she glanced surreptitiously at the hidden drawer, before blushing again. Odd that the master had shared our secret with her.
I took my diary, feeling a strange sense of foreboding deep in my gut. It began as a ripple, and then unfurled like a slow blooming flower. When I had stowed the diary in the travel pouch, the girl turned away, and led me down the corridor.
She did not take me to the master’s quarters as I expected, but straight to the courtyard where there was a multi-legged spurline waiting. I risked a glance at the master’s windows, on the other side of the yard, and caught a brief shift in the drapes, saw the master’s silhouette, one hand raised in farewell.
I did not like spurline, and the girl was clearly nervous, for she stopped in the doorway and waved me towards the beast with an impatient flick of her wrist. I risked one more glance at the master’s window, but the drapes had fallen, and there was nothing to see.
“Where am I to go?” I asked, and she gave a heavy sigh, and pointed to the man standing by the reptile’s head. “He’ll tell me?”
She nodded, and stepped back to let me pass. As soon as I was over the threshold, she closed the door, letting it push me the rest of the way into the courtyard.
I didn’t bother stopping to scold her. Everything so far hinted at haste and secrecy. The note the spurline’s groom handed me was brief, and to the point.
Kaskadir, it said. The blue tree by the lagoon.
Anyone else reading that would have thought the master meant a tree by a lake in the Kaskadir Forest, but I knew he meant the Blue Tree Inn which stands beside a duck pond in Kaskadir village. We had joked about it when we visited, but it was odd he didn’t name it. Odder still that he had not given me instructions on what to do when I arrived.
I turned to the groom, intending to ask him for further instructions, but he took me by the arm and manhandled me towards the saddle.
“Hey!” I shouted, and he picked me up, and dumped me in the saddle, making the spurline hiss with irritation. “Hey! You have some explaining to do!”
I shouted it as loudly as I could, and he gave me a smile and a wink almost too fast to see—and then he pushed the reins into my hands, before slapping the spurline, hard, on the neck. It reared with a ferocious snarl, and would have lashed out at him with its foreclaws had I not jerked the reins, forcing it to come around or lose balance.
I heard the groom cry out, but I had no time to stop; I could see the ridges behind the spurline’s jaws starting to fan upwards, and knew I had very little time to get the creature back under control and moving, before it could kill the handler. I did not know what had made him take such a risk, but it meant the master’s business was urgent indeed.
I could feel the weight of the message bag strap that he’d slipped over my head in our tussle. It pulled at my neck, and I was very glad he’d thought to stuff the bag down the front of my tunic and out of sight. Whatever was in it was as important as his life—and not just in the opinion of my master, but in the opinion of the groom as well, because no one treated a spurline as he had, unless they were suicidal; the reptiles were not forgiving.
Keeping the reins tight, I managed to get the beast turned and pointed towards the gates. As if by signal, they swung wide, both inner and outer gates, another indication of my mission’s urgency, since one was meant to bar entry until the other was closed—and especially at night. I urged the beast towards them, praying the groom would do nothing more to attract its attention.
The spurline tilted its head in his direction as it ran, but didn’t try to double back. My guess was that its handler was lying flat on the ground and pretending to be dead. I prayed he wasn’t truly so, for such foolhardy courage might be needed—and such loyalty. No man braves a spurline’s wrath for someone to whom he’s not loyal, and I did not want my master to lose a man he might need for his protection.
I hurried the spurline into the night, remembering why I loved them as much as I loathed them—their speed. The master kept a small clutch for messengers, but he rarely asked his messengers to dare the spurlines’ wrath. I crouched low in the saddle and guided the creature out onto the road. Once we were on the right path, I urged it to go even faster.
“Run, my beauty. Run,” I whispered. “The master needs us.”
And it obeyed, its body flowing beneath me as it stretched into the gait that had earned its kind the nickname “River Wind”. Together, we flowed across the miles to a crossroads, where we took the fork to Kaskadir. Beneath my legs, I could feel the spurline’s muscles ripple, its skin heating with the exercise, but its movements smooth as silk. It never faltered. Dawn was touching the sky by the time we left the hill country, and began to climb the steppes.
The trees grew closer together, and the road narrowed. Cliffs rose on one side of us, or dropped away on the other. Small rivulets cut trenches across our path, and were bridged by stone or make-shift constructions of logs and branches. The spurline slowed, and turned its head, glancing back at me with one gold-flecked eye.
I wondered what had troubled it, and then it pointed itself forward and surged to even greater speed, barking as it went. The sound startled me, and I looked around, tightening the reins and curling my hands under the front edge of the saddle.
The bark was an alarm call, but I could not tell to whom the creature was calling. Did it mean to warn me? Or was it warning something else? I tried to remember the little I knew about the reptiles. Where they came from. What they feared. But my mind was a blank, so I clung to the saddle, and tried to keep an eye on the countryside around us.
The spurline’s gait grew erratic. It surged forward in a sudden rush, and slowed, crabbing sideways, or moving diagonally. I recognised the tactic; it was like a skink, or jo-deer avoiding a hunter, except a skink would have sought cover in the shadow of the trees overhanging the road, and a jo-deer would have left the openness of the path to vanish into the bushes lining it.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind, than the spurline glanced back at me, and made a curious chirring sound. It reminded me of the noise made by the night geckos that sometimes ran across my walls, and I did not know what it meant. All I could think to do was grip more tightly with my legs and tighten my hold on the saddle front. And that was all the signal the spurline needed.
It raced forward, and then jolted sideways and up the cliff leading up from the road. I thought about shouting, but was too busy holding on to do more. I held fast to the saddle front, and pressed myself tight against the spurline’s spine. It made no sound as its claws gripped the rock face and it scampered up the vertical cliff exactly like the skink I had remembered.
Fortunately, it did not stop when it reached the overhanging trees. My legs were growing tired and the muscles in my shoulders and arms were beginning to tremble by then, and I was very glad when it rippled up and over the top of the cliff and wound its way into a thicket of bushes. It did not wait for my signal to stop, but drew to a halt and sank close to the ground. I decided to follow its example, and slid off its back, landing in the thick forest grass beside it.
Again, it made a sound I hadn’t heard before, this one a soft clicking noise. It didn’t give me time to wonder what it meant, but used the two legs closest to pull me against its side. I opened my mouth, drawing breath to speak, but it turned its head and hissed at me, giving me a close look at its jaws. I closed my mouth again, and leant against it, noticing how the branches of the bushes and trees formed a thick roof over our heads. I could not even see the sky.
Shortly afterwards, a shadow blotted out the filtered light, and the spurline tensed beneath me. I pressed in closer to its body, stroking a hand over its skin as though to soothe it. In truth, I think I was soothing myself.
As suddenly as it had come, the shadow was gone, overflying us without stopping. I felt the spurline relax, but not by much. It made the clicking sound again, and curved its head back to nudge me. I took the hint, and clambered back into the saddle, gathering the reins and crouching low. I watched as the spurline tilted its head from one side to the other, the fan-like ridge behind its jaws lifting and falling as it listened.
I listened, too, hearing the silence of the forest pressing in around us. It took a few heartbeats for me to realise that it was the silence the spurline was listening to. I settled in the saddle and waited. Twice more, the shadow passed, and it was not alone. Whatever, or whoever, was hunting us had company.
I do not know how long we waited in the shadows, but the light through the leaves had changed from the soft tones of morning to the intensity of full day, before the spurline moved. It wove its way out of the thicket and back to the cliff, and then it halted, and turned its head to me.
I looked down at the road, and decided it would be more prudent to follow the clifftop. If the flyers returned to see if they had missed us on the way to Kaskadir, we would be easy to see on the road, no matter what the traffic was; spurline were not the mount of choice for most travellers. It turned out to be a good decision.
The spurline moved into the shelter of the tree line several times over the course of the afternoon, and I began to wonder how it could tell what was above. I didn’t know enough of them to know if they were hunted from the sky, but it would explain the creature’s caution. Whatever it was, we were overlooking Kaskadir by dusk in spite of it.
We’d travelled most of the way parallel to the road, guided partly by the sound of travellers, or glimpses of the pathway through the trees, and partly by the shadows flying overhead. I figured they knew our destination, and would be travelling towards it… at least for some of the way. They were both a comfort and a worry.
We came upon the town from a different direction to the road, and I was alerted to the ambush that waited there, as I gazed back along the way we should have come. It made me wonder who had known we were on our way—and what I had that could be of such value.
Leading the spurline into a copse of trees below our overlook on a ridge leading down from the forest, I pulled the bag from beneath my tunic, and stood by the spurline’s head.
“What do you think?” I said. “Do we take a look and see what all the fuss is about? See if we can get a clue as to what to do next?”
The spurline looked into my face, and then down at the bag in my hand. It stretched out its nose to sniff the fabric, nudging it gently as it snuffed and snuffled its way from the drawstring to the hemline. Once there, it snuffled its way back up again, pausing here and there to draw deeper breaths. About half-way to the top, it drew back its head and sneezed, then reached forward again.
I watched as its top lip curled, heard the series of low chirring clicks that signalled anger, and then it snatched the bag from my fingers and, with a toss of its head, flung it down the hill.
“Hey!” I cried, running after it, but the spurline seized my collar as I passed, pulling me off my feet with the strength of its grip.
“But we’re almost there!” I shouted, sitting up from where I’d landed. “We have to take it to the Maple.”
Seeing me about to get to my feet, the spurline planted a foot on my chest, pinning me to the ground. It raised its head and made its strange, barking call again. I wondered why, but didn’t wait. The creature wasn’t hurting me, so I tried pushing its foot off my chest.
It didn’t budge. I tried peeling its claws back one at a time, so I could wriggle free, only to hear the strange growling chur it had made before as it swung its muzzle around. I saw its nostrils flare as our noses touched, and it placed a second foot on me. This one covered my belly, the claws curling around my waist and thighs.
It growled again, and looked away. Gazing up at it, it took me several heartbeats to realise the spurline was staring in the direction in which it had thrown the bag, and then it looked to the sky. I tensed, but it tightened its claws, and brought more weight to bear, then it raised its head to the sky, and barked, again.
I recognised thatbark; it was calling something… or someone. Seeing the way it was gazing at the sky, I wondered why it had suddenly decided to call in the flyers it had been dodging all day.
“Let me go!” I said, slapping at its claws, but it ignored me. “You treacherous beast! Let. Me. Go.”
I tried to wrench myself clear, but it had too strong a grip on me.
A shape swooped overhead, and I realised that I’d been seen from the ambush by the road. This time, the spurline didn’t try to hide. It followed the form as it descended, moving its head to trace its path All the while, its hold on me stayed firm.
I tried rolling, but this only made it close its grip, and I felt a claw slide into my flesh, as it growled. A shadow passed over us, as I froze.
“Please let me go.” I could hear tears in my voice, terror and pain, all things we were instructed must never be shown in the presence of these reptiles. “Please.”
I tried pushing at the claw that held me tightest, but this only earned me another growl, and one of the talons on its other foot bit into my thigh. I stared up at it, and bit my lip, watching as the spurline settled onto its haunches and raised its head. It barked again, and the shadow came in to land—a winged cat, carrying someone on its back.
I had not known that great cats could fly. I looked from the spurline to the cat, to the rider that dismounted, and I could not move. My mount held me too tightly for that. I felt my breathing turn to short gasps of fear, flexed muscles against the spurline’s claws, and tried to contain my terror. Cats. Of course, cats would hunt the spurline. Of course they’d be as big, again. Of course there would be those who rode them. Now, why hadn’t I thought of that?
I didn’t know what to do, or say. I had never heard the like. I had only watched the cats hunting skinks in the master’s garden. Trapped beneath the spurline’s claws, I knew just how the skink might feel. I watched the rider come, saw him stop five paces from the spurline and stretch out his hand.
“What have you there?” the man asked, in gentle tones. “Turned on your rider, did you? Summoned me from the sky, after hiding… her, all day? What would make you do a thing like that, hey?”
The spurline ducked its head, resting its muzzle briefly in the rider’s hand, and then it turned its head and gestured with its jaw in the direction of the bag. The rider glanced down at me, and then to where the spurline indicated.
“I’ll come back,” he said, and I didn’t know whether to be grateful, or even more afraid than I already was.
The spurline watched him go, its neck ridges moving gently up and down. It turned its head to track his movements, as I listened to him walk a few paces, and then stop. There was a brief pause, and then the spurline made the same soft clicking it had used to warn me of the flyers.
“It’s dangerous?” the man asked, and the spurline clicked again. “How dangerous?”
This time the spurline’s warning bark turned into a shout.
“No! Don’t touch it!”
I felt the claws vanish, but not before one final squeeze, that made me cry out in pain. I felt blood spread down my side, burn through my leg, and knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Not that I could move. I was watching as the spurline vanished, the bulk of its form dissolving into men… rather, into reptiles that walked upright, one of whom turned to look down at me.
“Foolish child,” it said, and placed a clawed foot on my chest.
Foolish child? I thought. I wasn’t the one who’d been ridden all day.
I watched as the lizardman who’d appeared in place of the spurline’s head, walked away.
“Chothra,” it said, and I knew the rider paused.
“You’re sure?”
“The smell is quite distinctive, my lord—especially to a spurline.”
“And the courier?”
“No more than a pawn. She was to meet you at the Maple… or to be found, and brought to you.”
The rider gave a short bark of laughter that held no mirth.
“The old unwitting assassin, hey?”
I listened, but did not want to believe. An unwitting assassin? Me? The master wouldn’t.
“Take a look. Tell me if you recognise her as one of Jovan’s folk.”
The rider came back into view, walking side by side with my spurline lizard man. I stared up at them both, wishing they were not so blurred.
“No,” the rider said, after bending close to study my face. “I have not seen her before. Is she new?”
“Not for him. We think he trafficks with the rodanion…”
I could not help it. I remembered the rodanion, had been incredibly grateful to be taken from their claws, incredibly relieved to be free of them—and then I’d felt lucky it was the master who had bought me, and not one of the green men from the plains, or the albinos from beneath the ground. I’d felt lucky to have such a kind master.
I felt a single tear escape my eye and trickle down the side of my face. The rider’s lips tightened, and he straightened up.
“He trafficks with the rodanion. It is enough.”
“But, my lord, we have no proof.”
“He tried to assassinate me. Isn’t that cause enough?”
I tried to follow them with my gaze, by my eyelids were growing heavy, so I let them close. In truth, I could not stop it happening. When I opened them again, I was in a bed, sandwiched between clean sheets and weighted down by blankets. Bandages wrapped my waist and leg, but I could move—as I discovered when a familiar growling chur greeted me as I opened my eyes.
I was out of the bed and on the floor in a tangle of sheets and blankets, scrambling backwards until I fetched up against a warm scaly hide. A second chur greeted me, and I felt teeth close over my hair and the nightshirt I didn’t remember putting on.
It lifted me off the floor, and I flailed, trying to break free, but my arms connected with nothing and one leg sang with pain, so I stopped. Looking around, I saw I was in a long room, set up with several beds like the one I’d been sleeping in. Beside each, was something like a furry spurline—not as big, and not with saddles, but sitting taller than the bed.
I wondered what they were, and saw movement at one end of the room.
“So, you are awake,”—that voice was familiar—“and causing trouble, already.”
I wanted to deny causing trouble, but my voice failed me. One of the first things the rodanions taught their slaves was not to speak, and I couldn’t bring myself to do so, now. I opened my mouth and closed it, several times, but decided silence was safer, and took refuge in staring at the floor. Eye contact was something else the rodanions discouraged.
“Leave,” the voice commanded, and the creature holding me, lowered me to the ground.
I backed up, until I felt warmth and fur at my back. The beast did not move, and I felt a weight settle on top of my head. Presumably the monster had rested its chin on me. The thought was strangely comforting.
I stared at the floor, until the speaker stood in front of me and curled a finger under my chin, lifting gently until I had to look him in the face. It was, I thought, the same rider from the… from when the spurline had turned against me.
“Remember me?” he asked, and I nodded, trying very hard not to meet his eyes.
He held out a hand, and, when I did not take it, reached out to take one of mine.
“Come with me,” he said, and led me from the room, slowing when I stumbled.
I saw his lips tighten, and flinched. They compressed even further, but he did not raise a hand in punishment.
“I am sorry you were hurt,” he said. “I did not realise…”
I shrugged. What was it to him, if I were hurt? Slaves were hurt all the time. When he saw I wasn’t going to say anything more, he took me to another room, one in which there was a table flanked by two chairs.
“Sit,” he said, and I obeyed. I nearly stood up and ran for the door, when he set my diary before me.
“You can read and write?” he asked, and I nodded.
He sighed.
“You must answer me with words, understood?” This time, it was an order, a command I dared not ignore, even with the absence of punishment, so far.
I nodded, and then hurried to speak.
“Yes,” I managed, and flinched, waiting for the blow to fall for not giving him a title I did not know.
He placed both his hands on the table.
“Jovan was your master,” he said, and looked at me. It took me a moment to realise he wanted an answer. Again, I risked the simplest reply—with no honorific.
“Yes.”
He placed his hand on the diary.
“Did he read this?”
“I think so.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“No.”
“Do you know why he chose you?”
“No.”
“It was not your task to take messages?”
“Not beyond the gates.”
“But you knew how to ride a spurline.”
“From before,” I said, and hunched in on myself, waiting for the blow to land; it was forbidden to speak of ‘before’.
“I am not going to hurt you,” he said, and I whimpered, waiting for him to begin what usually followed such words.
To my surprise, all that followed was an exasperated look, as though he knew what I expected, but he did not pursue it.
“If I said you were free to go and make a life for yourself, what would you do?” he asked, and I burst into tears, barely able to hear it, when he muttered, “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
He rested his head in his hands, for a long moment, and then looked at me.
“Did you know what you were given?” he asked, and I knew he meant when I left the master’s.
I shook my head.
“Speak!” The snapped command had me startle in fright.
“No, master!”
“Who were you going to meet at the Maple?”
“I don’t know. I was not told. There was a note.”
He nodded.
“We found the note.” He studied me for a long moment, then said, “Did you know we were told of your coming?”
“No.” My mind scrambled to keep up. I had suspected our pursuers knew of us. That they had been told was a suspicion I had been planning to report.
“Were you aware of what you were carrying?”
“No! A bag for someone. Nothing more.”
“Do you always open bags intended for someone else?”
I felt myself blushing to the roots of my hair, as I responded.
“No. I was hoping it might be a letter, with a name.”
“Why didn’t you wait until you reached the Maple?”
“I didn’t know I could. I was hoping the letter would give me a name and somewhere else to look.”
“But you know, now, that it wasn’t a letter, don’t you?”
I opened my mouth to deny it, but the exchange between the spurline lizardman and the rider returned to mind, so I nodded, following the gesture with a hasty, “Yes,” when he frowned.
“What is Chothra?” I ventured, when he didn’t immediately ask another question.
“Poison,” he said. “Opening the bag in the Maple would have killed every person in the room, and some on the street outside.”
It sank in that this meant I, too, would have died, that my master had meant for me to look inside the bag in an attempt to complete his mission, and that he had meantfor me to die. I felt tears well up in my eyes, and wondered what I had done to earn his wrath.
Hadn’t I served him well? Hadn’t I warned him when I saw the rodanions creeping up on the mansion?
I sat and stared at the man standing across the table, and it felt like my world had been torn apart.
“Are you my new master?” I asked, and saw the horror cross his face.
“We don’t have slaves here,” he said, when the silence had stretched between us—and I burst into tears anew.
“Then who do I belong to?” I asked. “Do I return to the master?”
I wondered if Jovan would take me back. He had intended me to die, after all—and I had failed to do as he’d intended. What sort of slave was I? I didn’t know what to do, what to think, or what to feel, could not imagine my place in the world. And then the man spoke again.
“What did you mean when you wrote you had chosen to be a servant, rather than a master?”
I stared at him. Now, what was I supposed to say in response to that? That the rodanion had sworn me to secrecy, had threatened death if I should tell? I said what I thought might answer the question without betraying them.
“My mother and sister are free,” I said, “because I am not. Such is the balance of the world.”
“Rodanion filth!” he said, a snarl in his voice. “Liars! I will destroy them all!”
I stared at him, horrified by his rage, but mortified by the meaning of his words.
“You mean they are not safe?” I asked, and the look he turned to me was bleak.
“Tell me,” he said, “did they give you a choice—enter into contract with them so your mother and sister did not have to go into slavery with you?”
“Yes,” I said, surprised because he had given me the exact words they used.
“Do you know that they give everyone this choice?” he asked, and his face was bleaker still.
“No,” I said. “I thought… I thought they only gave it to one member of each family.”
“And that they let the rest go free.”
“Yes. If we increased our value by learning to read and write, if we learnt our numbers, how to ride and… other things.” I could not bring myself to tell him of those ‘other’ skills, and, to my relief, he did not pry. “If we did all that, then our families would not be needed to meet the quota. Of course, I agreed.”
He sat down, then, something of his strength seeming to ebb, and I felt suddenly afraid.
“Did they lie?” I ask, and he nodded.
“They lied by making you believe your family would not go into slavery. What they said was that your family would not go into slavery with you. They sold them elsewhere, separately from you. Probably gave them the same choice as they gave you. It’s how they keep their prisoners quiet. Misusing the good-hearted to keep the peace.”
I wanted to shout, to scream, to call him a liar and run from the room. Instead, I sat on the seat opposite him and stared, too numb to speak or move. They had lied, and, perhaps, I had always known that, but to hear it… I cried, then, weeping for my lost family, for the suffering they had faced without me, and I without them. I didn’t know what to say. The man’s next question came almost as a relief.
“What did you mean by having no regrets?”
“I… I don’t know. I thought it was because…” My breath caught. “…because my family…”
I couldn’t say it. My family’s freedom had been a lie. The last ten years… wasted. I pressed my lips together, and stared at him. He stared back, and, finally, I had another question.
“What do I do, now?”
He rose from his seat, and crossed to the door.
“Come with me.”
I stood up and followed him, across the room, and out again. We traversed the same corridor, but did not return the way we had come. It came as no surprise, when we left the building and I found we were not in Kaskadir.
The mountains rose around us, and a waterfall thundered down a cliff at the end of the valley. We looked down on the river, which flowed along a gorge down one edge of the valley, and vanished around a bend. The forest cloaked the valley hills in shadows and green. Around me, the village buildings stood, sturdy structures of grey stone and dark timber, an entirely different place to my master’s compound on the downs.
The rider did not pause. He gave me no time to take in my surroundings, but strode down the centre of the village, leaving me to struggle in his wake. He had forgotten, too, my state of dress, and I shivered under the light tunic, missing the feel of breeches covering my legs.
We drew curious stares, but no one stopped us, until the man was a full building-length ahead. I kept following after him, but my strength was flagging, and there was no way I could keep up with his hurried strides. Finally, a woman appeared at the window of one of the buildings he was passing.
I saw her glance at him, and then back. She frowned when her gaze landed on me, and she vanished from view. A short time later, I saw her come out the door and hurry down the steps, walking quickly to intercept him before he could go much further.
She laid a hand on his upper arm, halting him mid-stride, as she looked up into his face. If I had not thought anyone would dare, I would have said she was scolding him, because he looked back at where I was coming up the street, and then hurried back to meet me.
“I am sorry,” he said, gesturing at my leg. “I had forgotten.”
I opened my mouth to tell him it was nothing to worry over, when the woman caught up with him, again laying a hand on his arm. He looked down at her, and sighed.
“This is Marriet. She tells me, I should at least let you dress properly, and that she’s the one to take care of you.”
I looked from him to Marriet, and then back again.
“And what do you say?” I asked, causing him to give a short humourless laugh.
“I say she is right, but that there are people you need to meet.”
His reply seemed to infuriate the woman and she blurted out, “Dressed like that?”
He looked at me, again, and shrugged.
“I meant quickly,” he said, and she subsided.
“At least let me fetch her a coat, then.”
“Fine,” he said, “but hurry.”
Once she had left us, and was hurrying back to the building from which she’d come, the rider turned about.
“This way,” he said. “Marriet will just have to catch up.”
He moved more slowly this time, keeping a hand on my shoulder as we. Marriet caught us, as we turned a corner and headed towards the edge of town.
“Are you sure?” she asked, looking in the direction we were going, as she helped me into the coat.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll let you know how it goes, when we’re done.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about this, but didn’t argue. Whatever lay ahead could be no worse than what lay behind. Besides, what other choice did I have?
We followed the road to the edge of the village, and then kept following it to where it turned into a narrow trail. At first, I thought it led to the water, but then I realised it took a parallel path to the river. We were just passing beneath the trees at the forest’s edge, when a commotion erupted behind us.
“Drannon!” someone called, but my guide merely walked faster.
I hurried after him, trying to keep up, and failing. Pain burned along the muscles in my injured leg, and the side where the bandages lay thickest felt strangely hot. My head was starting to pulse with a heartbeat of its own as he raced on ahead.
There was no point in trying to keep up. I just couldn’t; my body wouldn’t let me. Instead, I set myself the task of staying upright and following the path. Sooner or later, I would find him.
It ended up being sooner, rather than later. ‘Drannon’, if that was his name, returned back along the path, appearing from around a bend, with several figures accompanying him. At first I thought it was the shadows and dim forest light that made it hard to see them, but then I realised that those accompanying him blended with the trees. Knowing they would reach me soon, I stopped—and that was a mistake, because my leg gave out beneath me, and dumped me in the dirt.
They gathered around me, concern etching their faces, but I looked to the rider for direction. He reached down and drew me back to my feet, keeping one arm around my waist to steady me. I stared at the creatures with him, and felt just a little bit afraid.
“What do you say?” Drannon demanded. “Will she do?”
I glanced up at him in horror. He was selling me to the monsters?
Something of what I was thinking must have been clear by my expression.
“It’s not that,” he said. “You are not to be sold. These are the sapparine. They are lizardfolk, friends to the spurline. They wanted to meet with you.”
“Why?”
“You spoke to your mount, and were not afraid. If it had been a real spurline, it would have understood you.”
The world shifted, and I leant on him.
“What do you mean?”
This time, one of the sapparine answered me.
“He means you can direct the creatures with your mind, that you might be a liaison between us and the dragon.”
“Dragon?”
The sapparine looked at Drannon.
“You did not say she was slow of mind.”
“She is not,” Drannon replied, “but she is injured.”
As if to punctuate his words, another man came running down the path.
“Drannon!” he shouted. “She’s not well enough to leave the hospice. She’s…”
He stopped, as though noticing the sapparine for the first time.
“She…” he turned to the lizardfolk. “Forgive me for the interruption.”
I was feeling tired again. My leg was hurting, but leaning on Drannon meant I did not have to put any weight on it. My side throbbed, and a dull ache had spread throughout my stomach and back. If I did not sit down soon, I was going to fall down, Drannon’s support, or no. I just wanted them to get done with whatever it was they needed to decide.
“We will care for her from here,” said the sapparine, who had questioned my intelligence. “The wound was inflicted by one of our creatures.”
“But… but you don’t’ know anything about humans and how they heal,” he managed.
I saw the sapparines’ jaws drop in what I later learned was a reptilian smile.
“We know enough for this,” their leader said.
He looked straight at Drannon.
“We will return Marriet’s coat, when we have replaced it with something more suitable.”
“I… okay,” Drannon agreed, and passed me to the sapparine’s arms, when the lizardman reached for me.
I did not resist the transfer, or being lifted from the ground, and fell asleep on the journey back to their caverns. I cannot recall when, but I do know that I did not walk. I was carried, and, somewhere along the way, I realised I’d already met the three warriors walking beside the one who held me in his arms. They had been disguised as a spurline, right up until they’d call Drannon from the sky.
It was an interesting thought to fall asleep to, as interesting as waking wrapped in spider silk sheets, and cattail-stuffed blankets. Not as interesting as having to dress in a gown of spider silk and reed fibre, under their healer’s watchful eye.
“You will be fine,” he said, “but you will need a slow beginning, as you gain strength.”
“A slow beginning?”
“But a beginning nonetheless,” he told me. “And one, I think, that will compensate for the past.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Luck Among Servants is available as a stand-alone short story at the following links: books2read.com/u/me0v99.
You can also find Kristine Kathryn Rusch's latest free short story over on her blog: kriswrites.com. Why don't you go and check it out?
June 23, 2019
Carlie's Chapter 6 - Dear Tiger: Don't Look Back
LAST WEEK, Tiger reveals he is being hunted by FedExplore. This week, Simone lets Tiger know that Odyssey are trying to get to him first.Chapter 6 – Pass Phrase
Hey Tiges Wow! I really hope they pay you for the work you put in. I mean, I’m glad the captain didn’t put you out an airlock, but still…Also, Odyssey want you to stay put. They say they can get to you faster if you’re on-planet than running around in the stars-know-what ship, to the stars-know-where.Yes. I’m paraphrasing. They were nowhere near that polite.Look, by the time you get this, you’ll probably have shipped out, so I hope it gets to you soon, and doesn’t spend half a month hanging in some comms node before you find it.I also got to check in on my family. They’re okay. Nothing like what you’ve described has happened on Sharvin, but I warned my parents.Of course, I had to be quick. FedExplore had programs watching the email, and those things were after me faster than a tiger on a snow hare. It took a bit to shake them.Odyssey say they’ve put out a call to their agents to keep an eye out for you. It’s a bit like the FedExplore one, except it’s not public knowledge. It’s just for them. It’s got your picture so that if they see you, they can make themselves known and bring you in safely.Anyone comes up to you, just ask them about sharks, and they’ll tell you they’d much rather snow hares. Stay safe, Tiger Simone.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The complete series is available as short, individual ebooks, and will become available as an omnibus, later this year. In the meantime, you can find them on this blog, until one week after the last chapter in the last book of the series has been posted, at which point this series will be taken down, and a new series serialised on site.
books2read.com/u/4Awrze
books2read.com/u/mgrxdR
books2read.com/u/4DoG8D
books2read.com/u/b5Mng1
books2read.com/u/3GYBla
books2read.com/u/4782k8
Hey Tiges Wow! I really hope they pay you for the work you put in. I mean, I’m glad the captain didn’t put you out an airlock, but still…Also, Odyssey want you to stay put. They say they can get to you faster if you’re on-planet than running around in the stars-know-what ship, to the stars-know-where.Yes. I’m paraphrasing. They were nowhere near that polite.Look, by the time you get this, you’ll probably have shipped out, so I hope it gets to you soon, and doesn’t spend half a month hanging in some comms node before you find it.I also got to check in on my family. They’re okay. Nothing like what you’ve described has happened on Sharvin, but I warned my parents.Of course, I had to be quick. FedExplore had programs watching the email, and those things were after me faster than a tiger on a snow hare. It took a bit to shake them.Odyssey say they’ve put out a call to their agents to keep an eye out for you. It’s a bit like the FedExplore one, except it’s not public knowledge. It’s just for them. It’s got your picture so that if they see you, they can make themselves known and bring you in safely.Anyone comes up to you, just ask them about sharks, and they’ll tell you they’d much rather snow hares. Stay safe, Tiger Simone.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------The complete series is available as short, individual ebooks, and will become available as an omnibus, later this year. In the meantime, you can find them on this blog, until one week after the last chapter in the last book of the series has been posted, at which point this series will be taken down, and a new series serialised on site.
books2read.com/u/4Awrze
books2read.com/u/mgrxdR
books2read.com/u/4DoG8D
books2read.com/u/b5Mng1
books2read.com/u/3GYBla
books2read.com/u/4782k8June 18, 2019
Wednesday's Verse - Waiting for Judgement
This week’s verse moves from a futuristic urban fantasy horror verse to a sci-fantasy verse about a new colony awaiting its fate. It is taken from
366 Days of Poetry
, a collection of mixed-genre poetry released in 2016.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Waiting for Judgement
Here we stand,
the land sweeps away,
falls from the mountains,
becomes the plains.
The ragged plumes rise
of the forested hills
that descend to the beach front,
where the waves never still.
We wait for the judgement.
It’s not ours to say
if the planet can be home to us,
or if we’re to be sent away.
That decision lies
with the creatures here before,
the dragons who came to our aid,
who answered when we called.
So we wait for their judgment,
while the pirate ship’s hot corpse
smokes, and slowly blackens,
a memorial of sorts
to the first piece of teamwork
between our species wrought
in defense of a planet
from the raiders’ dreadnought.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------You can find the first two poetry collections at the links below - although there are plans to reissue them with more genre-appropriate covers in the future. The third collection will be released later in the year.
books2read.com/u/mVLQZb
books2read.com/u/bxgyLd
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Waiting for Judgement
Here we stand,
the land sweeps away,
falls from the mountains,
becomes the plains.
The ragged plumes rise
of the forested hills
that descend to the beach front,
where the waves never still.
We wait for the judgement.
It’s not ours to say
if the planet can be home to us,
or if we’re to be sent away.
That decision lies
with the creatures here before,
the dragons who came to our aid,
who answered when we called.
So we wait for their judgment,
while the pirate ship’s hot corpse
smokes, and slowly blackens,
a memorial of sorts
to the first piece of teamwork
between our species wrought
in defense of a planet
from the raiders’ dreadnought.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------You can find the first two poetry collections at the links below - although there are plans to reissue them with more genre-appropriate covers in the future. The third collection will be released later in the year.
books2read.com/u/mVLQZb
books2read.com/u/bxgyLdJune 17, 2019
Tuesday's Short - Lord of the Vortex
This week’s short story takes us from an Australian-set urban-fantasy tale of dinosaurs and discovery to the science-fiction tale of a starship's pilot and crew crashing into another dimension. Welcome to
Lord of the Vortex,
which remains one of my favourite tales from all the tales I've told.
Vortex travel—you don’t ask, and I won’t screw up the explanation; closest thing I can get to it is that I pilot a transdimensional skipping stone through the edge of a vortex from one point in space to another, and it gets you where you want to be. Well, most of the time. Just not this time. This time, we’re crashing, and I don’t know where we are.Lord of the Vortex
The vortex spun out of control. We could feel the tethers slipping away. Hell, we could seethe tethers breaking free on the monitors—and there was sweet nothing we could do to stop it.
“But we’re not ready,” Sophie wailed. “We could end up anywhere!”
“Shut up, and hit the klaxon!” Rory shouted back.
Seconds later, the klaxon sounded, and people hurried for their pods. Those too far away to make their pods, or the emergency pods scattered around the ship, found somewhere to brace. I wasn’t even sure if the storm panels would slide into place in time, not sure how much of the hull would remain intact if they didn’t, tried to ignore the spiralling fear, and give us the smoothest ride in that I could.
“Pull out!” Rory screamed, and I didn’t bother to dignify that with a response. I didn’t even roll my eyes. The ship was going down the minute those tethers released, and a snowball in Hell had a better chance of surviving, than I did of stopping it. Best I could hope for was to stabilise the spin, and slow the forward momentum… and that was only if I could get the ship going forward. Couldn’t expect much more, when vortex travel got out of hand.
Vortex travel? You wanna ask me this, now? Fine, my hands move quicker if my brain doesn’t chip in, anyway—and it’ll help me keep my mind off the fact I’m crashing… for the first time ever.
Vortex travel was invented when we discovered we could tether a ship to a point in a space vortex and use the spin to generate enough energy to punch through the vortex to another fixed point. Of course, we have to do it just right, or we could punch into another dimension, instead of skimming across the surface and out the other ‘side’ to another point in our space. And by dimension, I’m not talking space, time and that stuff; I’m talking parallel universes. It makes for a shorter trip than taking the long way round.
How do we manage it? Well, that takes more math than I’ve ever had. Let’s just say there was this famous astrophysicist in the fifty-first century, who tried to prove that other dimensions in space travel could be used to save on travel time for colony ships, and let’s just say that he thought vortices in space could provide a door to other dimensions, and then let’s just say the crazy son succeeded beyond all expectations, and leave it at that.
Vortex travel works, the ship’s computer calculates the jump faster than the implant inside my head, and there hasn’t been a vortex travel incident in over fifty years. Looks like we’re about to be the first.
As to not being sucked in? Well, that was an impossibility, given the whole tether and dimensional shift set-up was designed to do exactly that—pull the ship through the vortex, using the momentum to slide it across the skin of the other dimension to reappear in our own dimension at another point. It was a bit like skipping a stone, or flying a skipping stone, or whatever. Heaven knows what was going to happen now the tethers had lost their grip early.
I pushed a connection between the computer in my head and the ship’s mainframe, told the ship to ride my synapses, and make what corrections it could. Light flared inside my skull, and I lost contact with the world around me. When I came round, again, we were somewhere else.
“What do you mean we slit the dimensional envelope?” I croaked, when the computer woke me up.
“You have an incoming message,” it said, and I opened my eyes, trying to focus on my computer terminal.
“Unidentified craft. You will relinquish your controls. Unidentified craft, you will relinquish your controls. Unidenti…”
“All right,” I managed, and my voice rasped like I’d been chewing on scrap metal. “Computer, grant access to outside control.”
The computer hesitated. I felt it going through its responses like an echo in my head, noted the angle the ship was coming in on, could feel my brain quivering on the edge of darkness, as I tried to regain control.
“Computer! The ship must survive.” I know; it’s not the standard phrasing, but, honestly, my brain was mush, and I couldn’t have found the right phrasing to save myself… which is essentially what I was trying to do.
“Computer!”
“Verified.”
At least one of us was sounding unruffled. I wanted to cuss the computer out, but knew it wouldn’t make an ounce of difference. Silicon and precious metal had yet to develop emotion, and the systems linked to vortex transportation weren’t allowed to be AIs.
Apparently the proximity to that amount of energy did terrible things to an AI, which led to terrible things being done to the people inside the ship the AI was piloting. I knew the instant control was transferred, because I’d been too addled to disconnect my mind from the control system. The incoming system did that for me, knocking me to one side with a brutal speed and efficiency I’d later come to appreciate, kind of.
Losing the connection to the ship meant I became aware of a whole lot of other stuff, like the fact every command post inside the control centre had activated the survival pods built into the seats. Mine enclosed me tight enough to immobilise, which is what it was designed to do. I read what state the ship was in from the instruments in front of me, and tried to control the panic—we were crashing, and we were crashing bad.
“You wanna live forever?” I whispered, echoing the voices of a thousand marine sergeants on my father’s side, horrified beyond belief when someone responded.
“No. Do you?”
It took me a minute to work out that the voice was coming through the comms unit, and not being dropped directly into my skull. That was a relief.
“Not really,” I said, thinking about it, “but a little bit longer would be nice.”
“Then the lady’s wish is my command.”
“Sure. I bet you say that to all the girls.” It was out before I could stop it, and I blushed red to the roots of my hair. Fortunately, there was no one there to see me.
My unknown contact laughed.
“Not all, and not usually to those I haven’t seen in the flesh, so to speak.”
I was still pondering that statement when he spoke again.
“Your ship. It’s not a build we recognise.”
“It’s one of the newer models.”
“Newer models of what?”
“Tether ships.”
“Tether ships?”
“Vortex transports.”
“Ah…”
There was a wealth of understanding in that single aspiration, and I suddenly felt afraid.
“Where are we?”
“What went wrong?”
“The tethers slipped, broke free early. Where…”
“Your ship’s computer was quite correct. You’ve split the dimensional membrane, fallen inside the vortex.”
The meaning hit me like a hand twisting in my gut.
“You’re saying we’ve fallen into another dimension,” I whispered.
I kicked against the sides of the pod, wanting to open it up, wanting to get out of it, and do something… wanting desperately to run away. My contact didn’t help.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Something in his voice.
“You mean it’s not?”
“Of course, not. It’s just unprecedented, is all.”
The ship shuddered.
“Oops.”
“What do you mean oops?” I asked, and then a second jolt ran through the ship, hard enough to shake the pod a second time.
“What do you mean oops?” I repeated, when only silence replied.
The silence remained, but I stopped worrying about it, when the comms went to static and then cut out completely. I stopped worrying, and moved into sheer mind-numbing terror, when the pod started to vibrate, and then to shake, and then went into a spinning freefall that only signified one thing—the ship had hit, and was breaking apart. I didn’t even want to think about the sort of tumbling that would result in emergency pods tearing free of titanium mounts. I didn’t want to think of what was happening to the other pods… or the people who’d only had time to brace. They were gonna be toast.
I felt the computer link snap inside my head, felt it like a plug being pulled, was hit by a data download seconds before.
“Hell’s bells!” I screamed, feeling the data fill the implant’s memory, and start to spill out into my head. I tried to direct it into the pod’s memory, knew it wouldn’t fit, and screamed again. It was the last sound I made for quite some time. I woke to a gentle, somewhat familiar, voice.
“Hey, you in there? Hellooo, pretty lady, are you there?”
Pretty lady? That voice was kinda familiar, although, this time I was hearing it inside my head, instead of through my ears. Something about that struck me as odd, not right, maybe even not good. I licked my lips… I tried to lick my lips, couldn’t find a tongue. No lips, either.
“Don’t try to speak, yet.” That voice was very distracting.
Why couldn’t I lick my lips?
“Do you remember the crash?”
I tried to nod, couldn’t feel my head. Panic unfurled in my chest.
“Easy, there. You’re going to be okay.” He was trying hard to reassure me, but I could see the deep pain in his eyes, the lines in his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, and then gasped; my voice was not my own.
He reached toward me, touched the panel above—above?—my face, tucked his head to his chest, drew a shaky breath. Another voice intruded, footsteps shook my insides.
“My lord?”
I watched as he turned his head, caught the movement, as he raised his hand and quickly wiped his eyes, then wiped more carefully before turning fully to face the newcomer. I could feel his footsteps, too.
“Davaral.” It was a name, an acknowledgement of the other’s presence.
“My lord…” The other man came into view, glanced across at me, looked more carefully at his lord.
“She’ll fly.”
Davaral glanced towards me, once again.
“Are you sure? You’ve told her already?”
Told her? I wondered what I needed to be told, assumed I was the only ‘her’ in the room.
His lordship shook his head.
“You haven’ttold her? Then how do you know she’ll cope, let alone fly?”
I decided I didn’t like him very much. I’d survived the crash; of course, I’d cope.
“I’ll fly,” I said, and again my voice sounded wrong.
Both men looked up, startled, glancing around them as though trying to work out where the voice was coming from. I continued.
“Get me to a ship, and I’ll fly.”
Davaral looked startled, then horrified.
“My lord, you haveto tell her.”
His lordship stared him down.
“She held a ship together through a botched vortex transit, held it mostly together through the crash. She’ll cope and she’ll fly.
There! That should tell him. But Davaral merely glared at both of us, and made a motion with his finger that was just short of an order telling his lordship to turn around, and talk to me. With a sigh, his lordship turned away from Davaral, and placed both hands on the surface either side of my head.
“Do you know where you are?” he asked.
“I… I’m in another dimension,” I said, and scrambled for a memory that was reluctant to surface. “I… we crashed.”
I glanced around, tried to turn my head. No head. I couldn’t feel my head. The panic spread into my stomach, and out along my limbs. I trembled, and the deck beneath their feet shuddered.
“You’ve hooked her in, already?” Davaral was afraid. He was whispering, as though that could stop me from hearing. I thought the sensors in the pod were very good, because he was standing five feet away.
Med pods usually don’t pick up that far; it’s supposed to ensure the patient doesn’t overhear anything about their condition, before the medics break it to them. Odd how much was similar in this dimension.
“She thinks she’s in a med-pod, by all the stars! My lord, you have to tell her!”
I searched for the pod’s controls, found something that reminded me of sight, hooked in. When I saw the outside of the ship, I swallowed—I tried to swallow, couldn’t find my throat. I wanted to reach up and try to open the pod from the inside, couldn’t find my hands. I couldn’t feel my arms, my legs.
I tried for another connection, saw the entry bay, the cargo bay, the captain’s cabin, one of the crew cabins—well, that made me pause. I wondered if Davaral and his lordship knew those two had already come aboard. I looked again, knew I was blushing, but could not feel any heat across my skin. I returned to the console, and looked up at the man who’d woken me.
“My lord?”
He had been looking at Davaral. Now, he turned to me. I kept going, ignoring the weird echoes in my voice.
“I was in a crash. What is wrong with me?”
I saw his throat work as he swallowed, saw the way his hand moved as he opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it. When he did speak, I knew he was lying.
“There’s nothing wrong with you…”
“Yeah, there is. I can’t feel my head, my hands, my legs, my arms. I can’t lick my lips, or feel my throat. And I can see…” I remembered the scene in the crew cabin, diverted myself from reality. “Did you know you had two crewmen aboard, already? That they’re, they’re cavorting in the third cabin aft?”
“Dvorash and Samil,” Davaral said, like it wasn’t a surprise.
I remembered something of the breathless whispers that passed between the two, inadvertently tapped into the audio circuit in the cabin and channelled it through—and just as hastily switch it off. Davaral snorted, and turned away, but I was starting to get the hang of this visual thing, and I went to another cam, just in time to see him trying to contain his laughter, just in time to see the laughter die, and sudden pain appear in his eyes.
“Tell her,” he said, his voice harsh with emotion.
“Tell me what?” I asked. “That you’ve patched me into the ship’s sensors by mistake?”
I stopped as I realised something else.
“Which ship is this anyway? I thought we were crashing into a planet.”
This time, his lordship spoke, before I could say anything else.
“You were. You did. You did crash into a planet. I tried to bring you in gentle, but I didn’t know the ship, couldn’t stop the spin. You broke apart.”
“The computer downloaded into my skull,” I said, remembering. “I tried to push it into the pod, but there was no room.”
I stopped, exploring my memory, and I found the old ship, neatly filed and stored. I found new files as well. Some were labelled as memories, and some were instruction manuals. There were circuit maps, and I could identify the visual and audio wiring in the ship. I also found the security protocols, as well as how much fuel was in my tanks, the balance of the on-board life-support systems and the manual advising what it should be. These all seemed to be hardwired into my head.
His lordship was speaking again.
“I know. We salvaged as much of the data as we could, and…”
“You downloaded my head into a ship!” I said, and heard startled shouts from inside and out, found out which circuits to cut so I wasn’t broadcasting quite so broadly, and whispered, “Why?”
Again, I watched the emotion play across his face, saw him swallow down what could only be regret.
“Because we couldn’t save your body,” he managed, and the ragged sob lurching out of his throat caught us all by surprise.
Davaral was by his side in an instant, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, hugging him close, and glaring at me like it was my fault. It wasn’t his glare that silenced me, though; it was the new and sudden knowledge that I was a spaceship, that my body was dead, while I, somehow, lived on. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to cry, then wondered if I could. Along the way, I discovered I could make the sound.
There was something to be said for the speed of thought and computer processing. I shut the audio down and let myself weep in private, all the while watching his lordship get himself under control. When he shrugged Davaral away, I was waiting.
“We did all we could,” he said.
If I’d had a face, I’d have been glaring at him—and it would have been a better glare than the one Davaral gave me. I channelled what I was feeling into my voice, instead, not entirely surprised when the speakers gave me exactly the tone I wanted.
“But I’m still dead.”
“Your body is dead, but your mind…” He sighed. “We managed to save that. And your personality, too, I see.”
He had no right to sound that relieved.
“I’m going to need time to process this,” I said, and shut down.
I guess I was better integrated than I thought, because I woke up not wanting to scream. Somewhere in my little computer close out, I’d latched onto the idea that I could still fly—that, actually, I could fly better now, because it really was what I was built for. There were even star charts in the files—a whole two dimensions worth—but that wasn’t the first question I asked when I surfaced.
“How many survived?”
They were still on the quarter deck, the control centre, whatever, and both looked very relieved to hear me.
“You’re back!” his lordship said.
“Good! Now opened the thrice-damned door!” Davaral snarled.
I couldn’t help it; I giggled. That only seemed to worsen Davaral’s mood, but this time the glare was reserved for his lordship.
“I’ll go check on Dvorash and Samil,” he said. “You set her straight.”
Yeah, like that was going to happen. I ran through pre-flight like a pro. Looked like my physical transition wasn’t the only thing that had been assimilated. Davaral stopped mid-way across the control centre.
“Don’t you dare!” he muttered, and then turned to his lordship. “You tell her she can’t.”
Now, his lordship started to smile, his mood reflecting the sudden elation I was feeling.
“Well, youwanted her to fly,” he said.
“Yes, but not now. Please tell her to cool her jets.”
I cooled them, before his lordship could ask.
It wasn’t hard. I had questions, things I wanted to know.
“Survivors?”
Turned out I really didn’t want to know. From the control centre, I wasn’t the only one to ended up as a ship, but I was one of the ones who made it through the transition quickly and completely.
We lost Jedda; she’d had children, couldn’t get her head around never being able to hold them again. They’d had to wipe the mainframe to stop her detonating the ship and the rest of us with her. None of the full-bodied survivors had been able to talk her down. Not even her littlest wrapping her arms around the console and telling her how much she was loved had been enough to bring her back.
“I’m sorry,” his lordship said, and the tears on his face matched the ones running through my circuits.
Of the remaining starship transformations, we could still lose a half dozen.
“Not everyone can take the shift,” his lordship explained. “It’s partly because they were adults, partly because they’re human, partly because they haven’t had the conditioning, but mostly because it’s too big a shift. It’s the same in this dimension. We usually don’t try this on anyone not conditioned to it… but…”
“But?” I pushed.
“But we felt we had to try something. Your crash was the biggest we’d seen…”
“And you felt responsible,” I finished. “Why?”
“Because he was stupid enough to interfere with the pilot when she was trying to stabilise her craft,” Davaral’s voice broke in; the man had obviously returned from seeing to Samil and Dvorash. “Not that it would have made a single jot of difference. You were going in, and that was that.”
“And I hadn’t a hope in Hades of stabilising the ship,” I added, when his lordship looked about to argue. “I couldn’t even stop the spin. I thought you had.”
“Almost,” his lordship acknowledged, “but then you lost an engine, and a stabiliser, and the ship you were in was never designed to fly in atmosphere, was it?”
“No,” I said. “Tell me about the survivors.”
So, they did. We’d lost everyone outside a pod, but those in the main pods had pulled through. The command deck had been a write-off, but I would be flying in a squadron with many of them. Only the captain was walking out of this one on two legs.
“We need to take you back,” his lordship said.
“Through the vortex?” I asked. “Is that possible?”
He just gave me a look, and I realised I already knew the answer. Of course it was possible. Humanity had been trespassing for over six hundred and fifty-nine years.
“We didn’t know how to approach you,” his lordship said. “Technically, you were just sliding across our borders.”
Davaral gave another derogatory snort.
“They were violating our territory every time they tethered, let alone when they passed through the outer rim.”
“But it wasthe outer rim,” his lordship said. “We’ve negotiated passage through that before.”
Davaral turned to me.
“Truth was, the politiciansdidn’t want to let you humans know we existed without having a bit of leverage to ensure peaceful negotiations.”
I thought on the crash, on the way these beings had saved everyone they could.
“Well, they have that, now,” I said, and then another thought crossed my mind.
“What of your survivors? Was anyone hurt when we came down?” The thought was painful, but it had to be faced.
“It was one of the reasons I failed to stop the spin,” his lordship replied. “I had to get you over land that wasn’t populated.”
“You should have put them into the sea,” Davaral muttered, and his lordship gave him a look that told me just how old that argument was.
“So we killed no-one?” I asked, and his lordship shook his head.
“No, I spared you that, at least. and, yes, Davaral,” he snapped, turning his head to the older man, “I know it was another bargaining chip I lost, but it was worth every life I saved.”
The older man met his gaze and nodded. I caught the faintest flicker of a smile, and then Davaral spoke.
“Good, then. I’ll remind you that you said that next time you start moaning about how many human lives you didn’t save. I’m sure yourpeople appreciate the difference.”
His lordship hung his head, drawing a breath, as if about to renew an old argument, but Davaral wasn’t finished.
“And I should not have to remind you that, as a lord, you do not have the luxury of putting anything over your people’s safety. It is the law of the vortex, and you are tied to it.”
His lordship let his breath out in a sigh, and leant on the console, as though wearied beyond all patience. When he replied, exhaustion had threaded itself into his voice.
“I know, Davaral. I know.”
Seeing he had the advantage, Davaral didn’t hold back. He turned to me.
“Lady Ship,” he said. “My lordship must rest, if he is to carry the negotiations to your people—and you have charts to become familiar with.”
It was as close to an order as he’d yet given me, and the first time he’d addressed me directly. I dimmed the lights briefly to acknowledge him, and he closed the gap between himself and his lordship.
“Come, my lord. You need to sleep. She will make the shift, and, yes,” he added, shooting me a sly glance as he guided his lordship from the control centre, “I believe she willfly.”
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Lord of the Vortex is available as a stand-alone short story at the following links: books2read.com/u/m2Xrv7.
You can also find Kristine Kathryn Rusch's latest free short story over on her blog: kriswrites.com. Why don't you go and check it out?
Vortex travel—you don’t ask, and I won’t screw up the explanation; closest thing I can get to it is that I pilot a transdimensional skipping stone through the edge of a vortex from one point in space to another, and it gets you where you want to be. Well, most of the time. Just not this time. This time, we’re crashing, and I don’t know where we are.Lord of the Vortex
The vortex spun out of control. We could feel the tethers slipping away. Hell, we could seethe tethers breaking free on the monitors—and there was sweet nothing we could do to stop it.“But we’re not ready,” Sophie wailed. “We could end up anywhere!”
“Shut up, and hit the klaxon!” Rory shouted back.
Seconds later, the klaxon sounded, and people hurried for their pods. Those too far away to make their pods, or the emergency pods scattered around the ship, found somewhere to brace. I wasn’t even sure if the storm panels would slide into place in time, not sure how much of the hull would remain intact if they didn’t, tried to ignore the spiralling fear, and give us the smoothest ride in that I could.
“Pull out!” Rory screamed, and I didn’t bother to dignify that with a response. I didn’t even roll my eyes. The ship was going down the minute those tethers released, and a snowball in Hell had a better chance of surviving, than I did of stopping it. Best I could hope for was to stabilise the spin, and slow the forward momentum… and that was only if I could get the ship going forward. Couldn’t expect much more, when vortex travel got out of hand.
Vortex travel? You wanna ask me this, now? Fine, my hands move quicker if my brain doesn’t chip in, anyway—and it’ll help me keep my mind off the fact I’m crashing… for the first time ever.
Vortex travel was invented when we discovered we could tether a ship to a point in a space vortex and use the spin to generate enough energy to punch through the vortex to another fixed point. Of course, we have to do it just right, or we could punch into another dimension, instead of skimming across the surface and out the other ‘side’ to another point in our space. And by dimension, I’m not talking space, time and that stuff; I’m talking parallel universes. It makes for a shorter trip than taking the long way round.
How do we manage it? Well, that takes more math than I’ve ever had. Let’s just say there was this famous astrophysicist in the fifty-first century, who tried to prove that other dimensions in space travel could be used to save on travel time for colony ships, and let’s just say that he thought vortices in space could provide a door to other dimensions, and then let’s just say the crazy son succeeded beyond all expectations, and leave it at that.
Vortex travel works, the ship’s computer calculates the jump faster than the implant inside my head, and there hasn’t been a vortex travel incident in over fifty years. Looks like we’re about to be the first.
As to not being sucked in? Well, that was an impossibility, given the whole tether and dimensional shift set-up was designed to do exactly that—pull the ship through the vortex, using the momentum to slide it across the skin of the other dimension to reappear in our own dimension at another point. It was a bit like skipping a stone, or flying a skipping stone, or whatever. Heaven knows what was going to happen now the tethers had lost their grip early.
I pushed a connection between the computer in my head and the ship’s mainframe, told the ship to ride my synapses, and make what corrections it could. Light flared inside my skull, and I lost contact with the world around me. When I came round, again, we were somewhere else.
“What do you mean we slit the dimensional envelope?” I croaked, when the computer woke me up.
“You have an incoming message,” it said, and I opened my eyes, trying to focus on my computer terminal.
“Unidentified craft. You will relinquish your controls. Unidentified craft, you will relinquish your controls. Unidenti…”
“All right,” I managed, and my voice rasped like I’d been chewing on scrap metal. “Computer, grant access to outside control.”
The computer hesitated. I felt it going through its responses like an echo in my head, noted the angle the ship was coming in on, could feel my brain quivering on the edge of darkness, as I tried to regain control.
“Computer! The ship must survive.” I know; it’s not the standard phrasing, but, honestly, my brain was mush, and I couldn’t have found the right phrasing to save myself… which is essentially what I was trying to do.
“Computer!”
“Verified.”
At least one of us was sounding unruffled. I wanted to cuss the computer out, but knew it wouldn’t make an ounce of difference. Silicon and precious metal had yet to develop emotion, and the systems linked to vortex transportation weren’t allowed to be AIs.
Apparently the proximity to that amount of energy did terrible things to an AI, which led to terrible things being done to the people inside the ship the AI was piloting. I knew the instant control was transferred, because I’d been too addled to disconnect my mind from the control system. The incoming system did that for me, knocking me to one side with a brutal speed and efficiency I’d later come to appreciate, kind of.
Losing the connection to the ship meant I became aware of a whole lot of other stuff, like the fact every command post inside the control centre had activated the survival pods built into the seats. Mine enclosed me tight enough to immobilise, which is what it was designed to do. I read what state the ship was in from the instruments in front of me, and tried to control the panic—we were crashing, and we were crashing bad.
“You wanna live forever?” I whispered, echoing the voices of a thousand marine sergeants on my father’s side, horrified beyond belief when someone responded.
“No. Do you?”
It took me a minute to work out that the voice was coming through the comms unit, and not being dropped directly into my skull. That was a relief.
“Not really,” I said, thinking about it, “but a little bit longer would be nice.”
“Then the lady’s wish is my command.”
“Sure. I bet you say that to all the girls.” It was out before I could stop it, and I blushed red to the roots of my hair. Fortunately, there was no one there to see me.
My unknown contact laughed.
“Not all, and not usually to those I haven’t seen in the flesh, so to speak.”
I was still pondering that statement when he spoke again.
“Your ship. It’s not a build we recognise.”
“It’s one of the newer models.”
“Newer models of what?”
“Tether ships.”
“Tether ships?”
“Vortex transports.”
“Ah…”
There was a wealth of understanding in that single aspiration, and I suddenly felt afraid.
“Where are we?”
“What went wrong?”
“The tethers slipped, broke free early. Where…”
“Your ship’s computer was quite correct. You’ve split the dimensional membrane, fallen inside the vortex.”
The meaning hit me like a hand twisting in my gut.
“You’re saying we’ve fallen into another dimension,” I whispered.
I kicked against the sides of the pod, wanting to open it up, wanting to get out of it, and do something… wanting desperately to run away. My contact didn’t help.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Something in his voice.
“You mean it’s not?”
“Of course, not. It’s just unprecedented, is all.”
The ship shuddered.
“Oops.”
“What do you mean oops?” I asked, and then a second jolt ran through the ship, hard enough to shake the pod a second time.
“What do you mean oops?” I repeated, when only silence replied.
The silence remained, but I stopped worrying about it, when the comms went to static and then cut out completely. I stopped worrying, and moved into sheer mind-numbing terror, when the pod started to vibrate, and then to shake, and then went into a spinning freefall that only signified one thing—the ship had hit, and was breaking apart. I didn’t even want to think about the sort of tumbling that would result in emergency pods tearing free of titanium mounts. I didn’t want to think of what was happening to the other pods… or the people who’d only had time to brace. They were gonna be toast.
I felt the computer link snap inside my head, felt it like a plug being pulled, was hit by a data download seconds before.
“Hell’s bells!” I screamed, feeling the data fill the implant’s memory, and start to spill out into my head. I tried to direct it into the pod’s memory, knew it wouldn’t fit, and screamed again. It was the last sound I made for quite some time. I woke to a gentle, somewhat familiar, voice.
“Hey, you in there? Hellooo, pretty lady, are you there?”
Pretty lady? That voice was kinda familiar, although, this time I was hearing it inside my head, instead of through my ears. Something about that struck me as odd, not right, maybe even not good. I licked my lips… I tried to lick my lips, couldn’t find a tongue. No lips, either.
“Don’t try to speak, yet.” That voice was very distracting.
Why couldn’t I lick my lips?
“Do you remember the crash?”
I tried to nod, couldn’t feel my head. Panic unfurled in my chest.
“Easy, there. You’re going to be okay.” He was trying hard to reassure me, but I could see the deep pain in his eyes, the lines in his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, and then gasped; my voice was not my own.
He reached toward me, touched the panel above—above?—my face, tucked his head to his chest, drew a shaky breath. Another voice intruded, footsteps shook my insides.
“My lord?”
I watched as he turned his head, caught the movement, as he raised his hand and quickly wiped his eyes, then wiped more carefully before turning fully to face the newcomer. I could feel his footsteps, too.
“Davaral.” It was a name, an acknowledgement of the other’s presence.
“My lord…” The other man came into view, glanced across at me, looked more carefully at his lord.
“She’ll fly.”
Davaral glanced towards me, once again.
“Are you sure? You’ve told her already?”
Told her? I wondered what I needed to be told, assumed I was the only ‘her’ in the room.
His lordship shook his head.
“You haven’ttold her? Then how do you know she’ll cope, let alone fly?”
I decided I didn’t like him very much. I’d survived the crash; of course, I’d cope.
“I’ll fly,” I said, and again my voice sounded wrong.
Both men looked up, startled, glancing around them as though trying to work out where the voice was coming from. I continued.
“Get me to a ship, and I’ll fly.”
Davaral looked startled, then horrified.
“My lord, you haveto tell her.”
His lordship stared him down.
“She held a ship together through a botched vortex transit, held it mostly together through the crash. She’ll cope and she’ll fly.
There! That should tell him. But Davaral merely glared at both of us, and made a motion with his finger that was just short of an order telling his lordship to turn around, and talk to me. With a sigh, his lordship turned away from Davaral, and placed both hands on the surface either side of my head.
“Do you know where you are?” he asked.
“I… I’m in another dimension,” I said, and scrambled for a memory that was reluctant to surface. “I… we crashed.”
I glanced around, tried to turn my head. No head. I couldn’t feel my head. The panic spread into my stomach, and out along my limbs. I trembled, and the deck beneath their feet shuddered.
“You’ve hooked her in, already?” Davaral was afraid. He was whispering, as though that could stop me from hearing. I thought the sensors in the pod were very good, because he was standing five feet away.
Med pods usually don’t pick up that far; it’s supposed to ensure the patient doesn’t overhear anything about their condition, before the medics break it to them. Odd how much was similar in this dimension.
“She thinks she’s in a med-pod, by all the stars! My lord, you have to tell her!”
I searched for the pod’s controls, found something that reminded me of sight, hooked in. When I saw the outside of the ship, I swallowed—I tried to swallow, couldn’t find my throat. I wanted to reach up and try to open the pod from the inside, couldn’t find my hands. I couldn’t feel my arms, my legs.
I tried for another connection, saw the entry bay, the cargo bay, the captain’s cabin, one of the crew cabins—well, that made me pause. I wondered if Davaral and his lordship knew those two had already come aboard. I looked again, knew I was blushing, but could not feel any heat across my skin. I returned to the console, and looked up at the man who’d woken me.
“My lord?”
He had been looking at Davaral. Now, he turned to me. I kept going, ignoring the weird echoes in my voice.
“I was in a crash. What is wrong with me?”
I saw his throat work as he swallowed, saw the way his hand moved as he opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it. When he did speak, I knew he was lying.
“There’s nothing wrong with you…”
“Yeah, there is. I can’t feel my head, my hands, my legs, my arms. I can’t lick my lips, or feel my throat. And I can see…” I remembered the scene in the crew cabin, diverted myself from reality. “Did you know you had two crewmen aboard, already? That they’re, they’re cavorting in the third cabin aft?”
“Dvorash and Samil,” Davaral said, like it wasn’t a surprise.
I remembered something of the breathless whispers that passed between the two, inadvertently tapped into the audio circuit in the cabin and channelled it through—and just as hastily switch it off. Davaral snorted, and turned away, but I was starting to get the hang of this visual thing, and I went to another cam, just in time to see him trying to contain his laughter, just in time to see the laughter die, and sudden pain appear in his eyes.
“Tell her,” he said, his voice harsh with emotion.
“Tell me what?” I asked. “That you’ve patched me into the ship’s sensors by mistake?”
I stopped as I realised something else.
“Which ship is this anyway? I thought we were crashing into a planet.”
This time, his lordship spoke, before I could say anything else.
“You were. You did. You did crash into a planet. I tried to bring you in gentle, but I didn’t know the ship, couldn’t stop the spin. You broke apart.”
“The computer downloaded into my skull,” I said, remembering. “I tried to push it into the pod, but there was no room.”
I stopped, exploring my memory, and I found the old ship, neatly filed and stored. I found new files as well. Some were labelled as memories, and some were instruction manuals. There were circuit maps, and I could identify the visual and audio wiring in the ship. I also found the security protocols, as well as how much fuel was in my tanks, the balance of the on-board life-support systems and the manual advising what it should be. These all seemed to be hardwired into my head.
His lordship was speaking again.
“I know. We salvaged as much of the data as we could, and…”
“You downloaded my head into a ship!” I said, and heard startled shouts from inside and out, found out which circuits to cut so I wasn’t broadcasting quite so broadly, and whispered, “Why?”
Again, I watched the emotion play across his face, saw him swallow down what could only be regret.
“Because we couldn’t save your body,” he managed, and the ragged sob lurching out of his throat caught us all by surprise.
Davaral was by his side in an instant, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, hugging him close, and glaring at me like it was my fault. It wasn’t his glare that silenced me, though; it was the new and sudden knowledge that I was a spaceship, that my body was dead, while I, somehow, lived on. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to cry, then wondered if I could. Along the way, I discovered I could make the sound.
There was something to be said for the speed of thought and computer processing. I shut the audio down and let myself weep in private, all the while watching his lordship get himself under control. When he shrugged Davaral away, I was waiting.
“We did all we could,” he said.
If I’d had a face, I’d have been glaring at him—and it would have been a better glare than the one Davaral gave me. I channelled what I was feeling into my voice, instead, not entirely surprised when the speakers gave me exactly the tone I wanted.
“But I’m still dead.”
“Your body is dead, but your mind…” He sighed. “We managed to save that. And your personality, too, I see.”
He had no right to sound that relieved.
“I’m going to need time to process this,” I said, and shut down.
I guess I was better integrated than I thought, because I woke up not wanting to scream. Somewhere in my little computer close out, I’d latched onto the idea that I could still fly—that, actually, I could fly better now, because it really was what I was built for. There were even star charts in the files—a whole two dimensions worth—but that wasn’t the first question I asked when I surfaced.
“How many survived?”
They were still on the quarter deck, the control centre, whatever, and both looked very relieved to hear me.
“You’re back!” his lordship said.
“Good! Now opened the thrice-damned door!” Davaral snarled.
I couldn’t help it; I giggled. That only seemed to worsen Davaral’s mood, but this time the glare was reserved for his lordship.
“I’ll go check on Dvorash and Samil,” he said. “You set her straight.”
Yeah, like that was going to happen. I ran through pre-flight like a pro. Looked like my physical transition wasn’t the only thing that had been assimilated. Davaral stopped mid-way across the control centre.
“Don’t you dare!” he muttered, and then turned to his lordship. “You tell her she can’t.”
Now, his lordship started to smile, his mood reflecting the sudden elation I was feeling.
“Well, youwanted her to fly,” he said.
“Yes, but not now. Please tell her to cool her jets.”
I cooled them, before his lordship could ask.
It wasn’t hard. I had questions, things I wanted to know.
“Survivors?”
Turned out I really didn’t want to know. From the control centre, I wasn’t the only one to ended up as a ship, but I was one of the ones who made it through the transition quickly and completely.
We lost Jedda; she’d had children, couldn’t get her head around never being able to hold them again. They’d had to wipe the mainframe to stop her detonating the ship and the rest of us with her. None of the full-bodied survivors had been able to talk her down. Not even her littlest wrapping her arms around the console and telling her how much she was loved had been enough to bring her back.
“I’m sorry,” his lordship said, and the tears on his face matched the ones running through my circuits.
Of the remaining starship transformations, we could still lose a half dozen.
“Not everyone can take the shift,” his lordship explained. “It’s partly because they were adults, partly because they’re human, partly because they haven’t had the conditioning, but mostly because it’s too big a shift. It’s the same in this dimension. We usually don’t try this on anyone not conditioned to it… but…”
“But?” I pushed.
“But we felt we had to try something. Your crash was the biggest we’d seen…”
“And you felt responsible,” I finished. “Why?”
“Because he was stupid enough to interfere with the pilot when she was trying to stabilise her craft,” Davaral’s voice broke in; the man had obviously returned from seeing to Samil and Dvorash. “Not that it would have made a single jot of difference. You were going in, and that was that.”
“And I hadn’t a hope in Hades of stabilising the ship,” I added, when his lordship looked about to argue. “I couldn’t even stop the spin. I thought you had.”
“Almost,” his lordship acknowledged, “but then you lost an engine, and a stabiliser, and the ship you were in was never designed to fly in atmosphere, was it?”
“No,” I said. “Tell me about the survivors.”
So, they did. We’d lost everyone outside a pod, but those in the main pods had pulled through. The command deck had been a write-off, but I would be flying in a squadron with many of them. Only the captain was walking out of this one on two legs.
“We need to take you back,” his lordship said.
“Through the vortex?” I asked. “Is that possible?”
He just gave me a look, and I realised I already knew the answer. Of course it was possible. Humanity had been trespassing for over six hundred and fifty-nine years.
“We didn’t know how to approach you,” his lordship said. “Technically, you were just sliding across our borders.”
Davaral gave another derogatory snort.
“They were violating our territory every time they tethered, let alone when they passed through the outer rim.”
“But it wasthe outer rim,” his lordship said. “We’ve negotiated passage through that before.”
Davaral turned to me.
“Truth was, the politiciansdidn’t want to let you humans know we existed without having a bit of leverage to ensure peaceful negotiations.”
I thought on the crash, on the way these beings had saved everyone they could.
“Well, they have that, now,” I said, and then another thought crossed my mind.
“What of your survivors? Was anyone hurt when we came down?” The thought was painful, but it had to be faced.
“It was one of the reasons I failed to stop the spin,” his lordship replied. “I had to get you over land that wasn’t populated.”
“You should have put them into the sea,” Davaral muttered, and his lordship gave him a look that told me just how old that argument was.
“So we killed no-one?” I asked, and his lordship shook his head.
“No, I spared you that, at least. and, yes, Davaral,” he snapped, turning his head to the older man, “I know it was another bargaining chip I lost, but it was worth every life I saved.”
The older man met his gaze and nodded. I caught the faintest flicker of a smile, and then Davaral spoke.
“Good, then. I’ll remind you that you said that next time you start moaning about how many human lives you didn’t save. I’m sure yourpeople appreciate the difference.”
His lordship hung his head, drawing a breath, as if about to renew an old argument, but Davaral wasn’t finished.
“And I should not have to remind you that, as a lord, you do not have the luxury of putting anything over your people’s safety. It is the law of the vortex, and you are tied to it.”
His lordship let his breath out in a sigh, and leant on the console, as though wearied beyond all patience. When he replied, exhaustion had threaded itself into his voice.
“I know, Davaral. I know.”
Seeing he had the advantage, Davaral didn’t hold back. He turned to me.
“Lady Ship,” he said. “My lordship must rest, if he is to carry the negotiations to your people—and you have charts to become familiar with.”
It was as close to an order as he’d yet given me, and the first time he’d addressed me directly. I dimmed the lights briefly to acknowledge him, and he closed the gap between himself and his lordship.
“Come, my lord. You need to sleep. She will make the shift, and, yes,” he added, shooting me a sly glance as he guided his lordship from the control centre, “I believe she willfly.”
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Lord of the Vortex is available as a stand-alone short story at the following links: books2read.com/u/m2Xrv7.
You can also find Kristine Kathryn Rusch's latest free short story over on her blog: kriswrites.com. Why don't you go and check it out?
June 16, 2019
Carlie's Chapter 5 - Dear Tiger: Don't Look Back
LAST WEEK, Simone revealed she had found new allies in the form of a group called Odyssey. This week, Tiger reveals he's safe, but grounded on a planet.Chapter 5 – Hunted
Dear Simone
Got your letter. Can’t tell you where I am, or where I’m going to be, but that’s because I just don’t know. FedExplore tried to nail me down once they knew I’d gotten off Deskeden on the shuttle, but then they got too busy to move me.I got myself out of the holding cell, and into the orbital before they even knew I was gone.Those things down on the surface? They haven’t made it up here, yet. I’m not even sure they know how.All I know is that FedExplore are trying to work out if they can send down the marines. There’s a mercenary group they like to use when things go bad on a world. I never knew that.Well, now I do.I hack into their feeds at least once a day… or I was doing that. It’s getting harder to do now I’m not on the orbital any more. I got myself onto a freighter.The captain wanted to put me out an airlock when he found me, but the crew said there was a GalPol ship in-system, and he’d get caught. It gave me enough time to show him I could be useful, so he hired me.We’re heading in to where he can sell his cargo, but he’s not sure how far in that is. Good news is he says I’ve earned my passage. Bad news is he says I can’t stay. He’s got all the crew he needs, and can’t add any more.I’ll be dirt-side in another day cycle. Your people want to catch up with me, that’ll be the time.Thing is, I won’t be down there any longer than I have to be. The idea of being planetside scares ten kinds of star dust out of me. I’ll be running at the first sign of a temperature change, even if it’s just stepping out of the air-con.I’ve never been this scared in my life, Sims.Oh, and FedExplore are on my tail. Captain warned me they’d sent out a couple of missing person notices on the broadwave. Got my picture on them and all. Apparently, I’m ‘lost’—as in, ‘may have boarded the wrong ship by mistake’, not ‘run away from home’ or ‘wanted for questioning’.Which is nice of them. At least people won’t be throwing me in chains the minute they see me.Anyway, I have to get my stuff packed. The captain gave me permission to print off a few sets of clothes using the shipside replicator, and the crew donated a communicator. It’s a start, and I’m grateful.I really have to go. Packing, and then a work shift; I said I’d stick around until they got the ship off-loaded.Stay safe, Sims.Wherever you are.Better yet, stay in space. You’re safer out there.You tell Odyssey that.
Hugs
T.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The complete series is available as short, individual ebooks, and will become available as an omnibus, later this year. In the meantime, you can find them on this blog, until one week after the last chapter in the last book of the series has been posted, at which point this series will be taken down, and a new series serialised on site.
books2read.com/u/4Awrze
books2read.com/u/mgrxdR
books2read.com/u/4DoG8D
books2read.com/u/b5Mng1
books2read.com/u/3GYBla
books2read.com/u/4782k8
Dear SimoneGot your letter. Can’t tell you where I am, or where I’m going to be, but that’s because I just don’t know. FedExplore tried to nail me down once they knew I’d gotten off Deskeden on the shuttle, but then they got too busy to move me.I got myself out of the holding cell, and into the orbital before they even knew I was gone.Those things down on the surface? They haven’t made it up here, yet. I’m not even sure they know how.All I know is that FedExplore are trying to work out if they can send down the marines. There’s a mercenary group they like to use when things go bad on a world. I never knew that.Well, now I do.I hack into their feeds at least once a day… or I was doing that. It’s getting harder to do now I’m not on the orbital any more. I got myself onto a freighter.The captain wanted to put me out an airlock when he found me, but the crew said there was a GalPol ship in-system, and he’d get caught. It gave me enough time to show him I could be useful, so he hired me.We’re heading in to where he can sell his cargo, but he’s not sure how far in that is. Good news is he says I’ve earned my passage. Bad news is he says I can’t stay. He’s got all the crew he needs, and can’t add any more.I’ll be dirt-side in another day cycle. Your people want to catch up with me, that’ll be the time.Thing is, I won’t be down there any longer than I have to be. The idea of being planetside scares ten kinds of star dust out of me. I’ll be running at the first sign of a temperature change, even if it’s just stepping out of the air-con.I’ve never been this scared in my life, Sims.Oh, and FedExplore are on my tail. Captain warned me they’d sent out a couple of missing person notices on the broadwave. Got my picture on them and all. Apparently, I’m ‘lost’—as in, ‘may have boarded the wrong ship by mistake’, not ‘run away from home’ or ‘wanted for questioning’.Which is nice of them. At least people won’t be throwing me in chains the minute they see me.Anyway, I have to get my stuff packed. The captain gave me permission to print off a few sets of clothes using the shipside replicator, and the crew donated a communicator. It’s a start, and I’m grateful.I really have to go. Packing, and then a work shift; I said I’d stick around until they got the ship off-loaded.Stay safe, Sims.Wherever you are.Better yet, stay in space. You’re safer out there.You tell Odyssey that.
Hugs
T.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The complete series is available as short, individual ebooks, and will become available as an omnibus, later this year. In the meantime, you can find them on this blog, until one week after the last chapter in the last book of the series has been posted, at which point this series will be taken down, and a new series serialised on site.
books2read.com/u/4Awrze
books2read.com/u/mgrxdR
books2read.com/u/4DoG8D
books2read.com/u/b5Mng1
books2read.com/u/3GYBla
books2read.com/u/4782k8June 11, 2019
Wednesday's Verse - A Deathly Lullaby
This week’s verse moves from a fantasy poem of heroism and self-sacrifice to a horror poem that could either be classified as urban fantasy or sci-fantasy. It is taken from the upcoming collection
Another 365 Days of Poetry
, a collection of mixed-genre poetry yet to be released.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Deathly Lullaby
I lived upon a lullaby
listened to the music sliding by
thought to lift my head
and wonder why
so many wished for us to sleep
that they played this tune
in every street
in every house
in every land
at every bus stop, shopping centre and news stand
and down we lay
just as they’d hoped
sound asleep
our futures stopped
until one day I realised
how long it was since closed I my eyes
and thought to lift my head
and wonder why
I could hear a lullaby
and then I saw them come to feed
knew that I would swiftly need
a counter to the sweet sleep song
and so my guitar, I brought along
and plugged it into the telecom
so that every mobile, computer,
every radio station and empty stage
came alive as I began to play
a jarring parody of a song
that better bands had once performed
and woke I the world
until, with clashing sound
we managed the lullaby to drown
long enough for better minds
to find solutions more long-lived than mine
for the dissidence in my sound barrage
was something banished to my garage
and grateful as they said they were
the governments did my tune outlaw
and stashed it in a safer place
to be activated should they find misplaced
the cure that stopped the lullaby
and forced our predators to fly
until we hunted from our lands
and seas and skies
the makers that fed when we closed our eyes.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------You can find the first two poetry collections at the links below - although there are plans to reissue them with more genre-appropriate covers in the future. The third collection will be released later in the year.
books2read.com/u/mVLQZb
books2read.com/u/bxgyLd
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Deathly Lullaby
I lived upon a lullaby
listened to the music sliding by
thought to lift my head
and wonder why
so many wished for us to sleep
that they played this tune
in every street
in every house
in every land
at every bus stop, shopping centre and news stand
and down we lay
just as they’d hoped
sound asleep
our futures stopped
until one day I realised
how long it was since closed I my eyes
and thought to lift my head
and wonder why
I could hear a lullaby
and then I saw them come to feed
knew that I would swiftly need
a counter to the sweet sleep song
and so my guitar, I brought along
and plugged it into the telecom
so that every mobile, computer,
every radio station and empty stage
came alive as I began to play
a jarring parody of a song
that better bands had once performed
and woke I the world
until, with clashing sound
we managed the lullaby to drown
long enough for better minds
to find solutions more long-lived than mine
for the dissidence in my sound barrage
was something banished to my garage
and grateful as they said they were
the governments did my tune outlawand stashed it in a safer place
to be activated should they find misplaced
the cure that stopped the lullaby
and forced our predators to fly
until we hunted from our lands
and seas and skies
the makers that fed when we closed our eyes.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------You can find the first two poetry collections at the links below - although there are plans to reissue them with more genre-appropriate covers in the future. The third collection will be released later in the year.
books2read.com/u/mVLQZb
books2read.com/u/bxgyLd
