You will not defeat me, it said. Not again! I will not be…
Then she plunged the Sword of Light into the black shape above the sarcophagus.
It exploded; black vapor swept over her, snatching her breath away, and she fell backward, gasping. She landed sitting on the floor, legs splayed, left hand behind her hip—but her right hand still held the Sword of Light, and she still wore King Derebeth’s armor. She did not lose consciousness, or collapse further; instead she sat, dazed, for a moment, while the vapor dissipated and the menace of the Undead Lord passed away for another four centuries.
And then it was all over, and she had a bruise on her right hip and had skinned several knuckles. Her foot hurt, and her eyes stung. Somewhere behind her Staun was rolling on the floor, moaning.
“Well,” Captain Lethis said at her left shoulder, “I suppose we had better get the lid back on that thing, then pack up the sword and mail for next time.”
“And this time,” Uril said, “I think we had better make sure everyone knows just what a skinny little fellow King Derebeth was!”
Siria looked up at Uril, but could not yet find her breath to speak.
“You were very brave, young lady,” Lethis said. “And clever, too.”
“You probably saved our lives,” Fellan added.
Still looking at Uril, Siria managed to say, “Then perhaps someone could buy me a dinner when we get back to Splittree.”
“Well, it won’t be Staun,” Orpac said. “I don’t think he’ll want anything to do with any women for awhile, and I’m sure he won’t want you around!”
“I’m sorry,” Siria said, turning to look over her shoulder. Staun was now sitting with his back against the wall, still breathing raggedly.
“Don’t be,” Uril said. “As Fellan said, you saved us all.”
Siria looked up at him again. “Then you’ll buy me that dinner?”
Uril laughed. “You can buy your own,” he said.
Siria shook her head. “No, I can’t,” she began.
“Yes, you can,” Uril said. “Once we get back to the Citadel, anyway. You’ve just earned yourself full pay for this errand—hadn’t you realized?”
Startled, Siria looked at Lethis, who was helping Grulli and Worna lift the stone lid of the sarcophagus back into place.
“Of course,” Lethis said. “And you’ll be offered a place at the Citadel. It’s the usual reward for disposing of dangerous magic. The Council prefers to keep anyone who can handle themselves that well where they can watch them.”
Siria’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged.
That meant no more begging. No more cozying up to men she didn’t like in order to scrounge a meal.
Her mouth closed; then she said, “But that’s at the Citadel.”
Uril laughed again. “Fine,” he said. “Then I’ll buy you dinner in Splittree. And maybe we’ll talk a little, get to know each other. Here you’ve saved my life and I don’t even know your name!”
“Siria,” Siria said, with the broadest smile she had allowed herself in ages. “And I think I’d like that.
MITTENS AND HOTFOOT
The day was bright and warm, and Mittens couldn’t believe his humans would actually expect him to stay indoors. When the door opened to let the big human out that morning, Mittens slipped past his feet and hid in the bushes.
The big one didn’t notice; he traipsed down the front walk utterly oblivious to the kitten crouching behind the azaleas, got in his car, and drove away.
Mittens was free!
He waited until the car was out of sight, then trotted out of the bushes and looked around.
Grass, flowers, trees—the whole wide wonderful world lay spread out before him!
Where to go, what to do?
He ran out onto the grass, wrestled with one blade, chewed on another, noticed his tail and gave a quick chase, then spotted a butterfly.
That was a worthy opponent! Mittens forgot about his tail and set out in pursuit of the fluttering insect.
It was a grand and glorious hunt, the butterfly flitting from place to place apparently unaware of Mitten’s leaps and lunges, blithely ignoring the claws and fangs that passed within inches of its delicate wings.
The chase wound across the front lawn, around the side of the house, then down through the vegetable garden, between the strakes of a picket fence into the yard next door, and into the neighbor’s back-yard flower garden.
Then, just as Mittens was closing in for the kill—or so Mittens told himself, at any rate—a jet of fire came from nowhere and fried the butterfly to a crisp.
Astonished, Mittens stopped almost in mid-leap and froze, back arched, paws braced.
Where had that come from? What had happened to the fluttery thing?
Leaves rustled, and a head emerged from a clump of tiger lilies—a little green, scaly head with smoking nostrils.
Mittens backed away, tail in the air.
A long, thin neck followed the head, and a long, thin body supported by four short legs, and finally a long, thin tail that dragged on the ground. The entire creature, though, was only a little over a foot long, and no taller than Mittens himself.
Mittens stared, wide-eyed, back arched. He’d never seen such a thing.
Of course, being only twelve weeks old, he hadn’t seen much.
The two animals stared at one another; then the baby dragon turned away.
Mittens couldn’t resist; he pounced.
Almost immediately, he decided that was a bad idea; the dragon writhed about, and spat an angry flame at inoffensive air. The kitten leaped away sideways, back arched again, tail puffed up.
The dragon didn’t pursue him; it just untangled itself, then turned to watch Mittens with those golden lizard-eyes.
Mittens didn’t like that. Mittens considered for a moment, then decided that whatever this thing was, it was best left alone. He turned and scampered away.
For the next hour Mittens had a wonderful time, running about the garden, chasing butterflies and other interesting creatures; he forgot all about that nasty lizard thing.
At last, tired and happy, Mittens decided it was time to go inside and take a nap. He clambered up the back steps to the kitchen door.
It was closed, of course. Somehow, Mittens had never thought about that—if he needed a human’s help to get out, then he needed help to get in, too!
He mewed piteously; maybe a human would hear him and let him in. He mewed again, as loudly as he could.
The door didn’t budge.
This was bad. Mittens wanted to curl up on his own little red cushion. He wanted to get inside where his food and water dishes were. Yards and gardens were fine for play, but the important stuff was in the house. It was getting hot out here, and the sun was too bright, and he didn’t like it any more.
He mewed again.
The door didn’t move. No one came. He couldn’t hear anything moving inside the house.
Well, Mittens wasn’t stupid, by kitten standards; he hopped down the steps and circled the house, trying every door and window he could reach.
All were closed tight.
How could this be? Hadn’t the humans noticed that he was outside? Hadn’t they realized he would want to come in? Where were they, asleep? Or had they all gone out without his noticing it?
Stupid, inconsiderate humans!
He tried clawing at the back door, but his tiny claws couldn’t do much more than scratch the paint. He meowed as loud as he could—all to no avail.
He couldn’t get in by himself; he needed help.
And if the humans weren’t around, he’d have to find some other kind of help.
* * * *
Bill Abbott waved farewell to his carpool and turned toward his house. Then he stopped, startled.
His next-door neig
hbor, a rather odd fellow named Cawley, was poking through the Abbotts’ azaleas, muttering.
“Lose something?” Abbott asked.
Cawley looked up, startled. “As a matter of fact, I did,” he said. “A pet. She must have got out somehow, I’m not sure how.”
Abbott hadn’t known Cawley kept any pets. “What sort of pet?” he asked. “A cat?”
“No, a…a sort of lizard,” Cawley said. “Her name is Hotfoot.”
“Odd name for a lizard,” Abbott remarked. “What is she, an iguana?”
Cawley hesitated. “No,” he said, “no, actually, she’s a baby dragon.”
Abbott blinked. “You mean, like a Komodo dragon? From Asia?”
“European,” Cawley said. “If you see her, let me know, would you?”
“Of course,” Abbott said. He walked on past Cawley and the azaleas, found his key, and let himself into the house.
He smelled smoke.
Janet or the kids had probably burned breakfast or something, but Abbott was a bit worried all the same. He peered into the living room.
There was Mittens, curled up asleep on his little green cushion. Nothing was burning.
Abbott hurried down the hall to the kitchen.
There he found the source of the smell—and as he looked at it, he remembered what Cawley had said, and remembered that Mittens’ cushion was red, not green.
He walked slowly back to the living room and looked again.
Sure enough, Mittens and Hotfoot were curled up together on Mittens’ bed, both sound asleep. A thin wisp of smoke trailed up from Hotfoot’s snout.
Abbott stared, then sat down abruptly on the nearest chair.
He shook his head.
He wanted to be a good neighbor, and all that, and he didn’t like to cause anyone trouble; live and let live was his motto. All the same, he was going to have to talk to Cawley about this. When Hotfoot made that foot-wide hole through the back door she might have burned down the house.
He wondered what the local zoning regulations said about keeping dragons.
JUST PERFECT
The envelope had no stamp or return address. The lack of an address wasn’t unusual—it was amazing how many would-be writers didn’t bother with details like that—but the absence of a stamp was odd.
The envelope was still flawlessly clean and smooth, too.
It must have been hand-delivered, he decided. Either the author was local, or somebody was trying stunts to get attention.
The address, he noticed with a start, was hand-written, in the most beautiful handwriting he had ever seen. He stared at it for a moment, mesmerized. Then he shrugged, picked up the letter opener, and slit the flap.
He pulled out the manuscript and put it aside for a moment while he read the cover letter.
“The time has come,” the letter said, “To let My people know a little more of My nature. Among all the false prophecies and fraudulent scriptures, however, even the ineffable Truth might be lost. Accordingly, I have chosen to use the form of a short story, and to speak in My Own words, rather than relying on scribes and prophets. Furthermore, I have chosen your magazine to bear My Word.”
Another goofball trying to be cute, the editor thought, frowning.
“I am not another goofball trying to be cute, in your phrase,” the letter continued. The editor blinked, and read on. “Nor am I a religious nut espousing any bizarre faith or mistaken belief. I do not prate here of any great secrets of the universe. Instead, as all good fiction must, I simply tell a story, and through it reveal certain truths of the human—and divine—condition. I do not expect you to believe me, but I do ask that you give the story a fair trial.”
The signature was illegible; it might have been four Hebrew letters.
“Screwball authors,” the editor muttered.
He put aside the letter, picked up the manuscript, and began reading.
At the end of the first paragraph his eyes widened. At the end of the second a surprised bark of laughter escaped him. By the time he reached the foot of the first page he was giggling hysterically, but unable to tear his gaze from the words in front of him.
By page four he was sobbing uncontrollably.
By page seven he was smiling through his tears, smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt.
When he reached the conclusion, on page ten, he simply sat for a long moment in silent awe.
The story was perfect.
Literally, undeniably, absolutely perfect.
The author was an absolute genius. Despite the silly gimmicky cover letter. Publishing this thing would be a real coup—it was a sure award-winner, guaranteed a slot in every “best of the year” anthology. And it looked like a first sale, which meant he’d get credit for discovering this guy—whoever he was. There wasn’t any by-line—obviously a real beginner.
A beginner with absolutely incredible talent.
He sat back and basked in the story’s afterglow, and in warm thoughts of all the good things that would come of publishing it.
The phone rang; annoyed at the disruption of his mood, he picked up the receiver and demanded, “Yes?”
The voice on the other end was calm.
“Your story? You mean you’re the one who wrote this?” the editor asked.
He listened, then replied, “Well, yes, it’s excellent—simply amazing, in fact. We’ll pay you our top rate of eight cents a word…”
“Of course we’ll handle reprint rights if you want—I’m sure that it’ll be picked up several places.”
“I don’t see an address on here; where can we get hold of you?”
“Anywhere? You mean, just…just pray?”
“Yes, of course I believe in You.” And in fact, the editor realized, he was beginning to, for the first time since childhood. “Where should we send the check?”
“Any charity? Why, thank You.”
As he listened to the calm, fatherly voice the editor looked at the manuscript, thinking.
The story was perfect—so incredibly good, so powerful, so moving, so complete, so right, that any other story would be a let-down afterward.
It was perfect.
And given its Author, how could it be anything else?
The editor cleared his throat. “Uh, there’s just one thing, uh, sir,” he said. “I mean, it’s a great story, really stunning—of course it is, since You wrote it—but You do understand we’ll want to make a few little editorial changes…”
TRIXIE
The black kitten swiveled her head back and forth, her golden eyes wide, wary, and staring, as she was carried down the block and up the front walk of No. 1224. When Annie raised her arm to ring the doorbell the kitten panicked and tried to scramble up her blouse to her shoulder, only to be grabbed firmly and held where she was on Annie’s chest.
“There, there, sweetie,” Annie said soothingly, as she petted the frightened creature. “You’ll be fine.”
The door opened and the kitten turned her head to stare at an unfamiliar face, a round but heavily lined face beneath fine, frizzy white hair.
“Hello, Sally,” Annie said. “May we come in?”
“Of course!” Sally said. “You’ll have to introduce me to your friend.”
Annie stepped into a living room that smelled of lavender and chicken soup. “She doesn’t have a name yet,” she explained, setting the kitten on the sofa. “I brought her for you—I thought you could use some company, living here alone.”
“For me?” Sally looked down at the kitten. “Oh, you shouldn’t have! I’m not so alone as all that—I have help. And, well, I’m not a young woman. I’m ninety-two…bending down to clean a box…”
“Oh, I’ll do that,” Annie interrupted. “I’d be glad to. I’ll come over every Sunday to take care of it—more often, if you like. It must be so hard for you to
take care of this place! And you do it so well—it’s spotless! I wish my house were half so tidy.”
“Oh, really, it’s not hard to keep up; you’d be surprised who helps out.”
“That nephew of yours?”
Sally snorted. “Albert? Not likely! No, I have other friends who take care of some of the housework.”
“I’d love to meet them.”
Sally frowned. “Well, maybe someday.”
“But they’re not here all the time—couldn’t you use some company?”
Sally looked at the kitten. “I’m not sure how my helpers would like it.”
“Are they allergic to cats?”
“They might be; I’m really not sure.”
The kitten ignored the human conversation; she had gotten over her fright sufficiently to take a look around. She crept forward and peered over the edge of the cushion at the floor, thought about jumping, then reconsidered. Instead she turned and ran to one end, bounced off the arm of the couch, then scampered to the back of the cushion and thrust a paw into the opening there.
“She is an adorable little thing, though, isn’t she?” Sally said, as she watched her feline guest’s actions.
“I knew you’d like her. If she ever gets to be too much trouble I’ll take her back, but really, I’d feel better if I knew you weren’t completely alone here.”
Sally gave in. “All right,” she said. She reached out to pet the kitten.
The kitten allowed a few quick strokes, then decided she’d had enough and rolled over, out from beneath Sally’s unsteady hand, down behind the couch cushion.
That was not quite what she had intended; she scrabbled along, then burst up into the open air a foot or so away from where she had disappeared.
“Oh, she’s a tricksy little thing!” Sally exclaimed.
And from then on the kitten’s name was Trixie.
Annie brought over Trixie’s litterbox and a supply of cat food, and the matter was settled—Trixie would live with Sally Schultz henceforth.
Trixie spent the rest of the afternoon happily exploring her new home, discovering which furniture she could fit under and which she could not, finding the kitchen with its wonderful smells and her litterbox’s new location in the laundry room, and running wildly back and forth for no reason other than kittenhood.
The Lawrence Watt-Evans Fantasy Page 26
