by Stuart Jaffe
Malja clutched her chest and fought back against the tears welling in her eyes. It was no use, though. She couldn't suppress anymore. She turned her head toward the sky and let out a howling scream.
All her frustration, anger, and hatred burst forth. Tears streamed down her face as her horse trudged on, and still she screamed. She gasped and coughed, but even that did not stop her cry. Only when her throat ached and her voice cracked into silence, refusing to produce more sound, did she lower her head.
She thought little more during the rest of her ride. Her mind was exhausted from the most self-confrontation she had ever let happen. And she feared that if she started to think on it all again, she wouldn't be able to stop another outburst. There was no more time for that this day. She had to be Malja, the great warrior, once again.
* * * *
When she reached the outskirts of Salia City, she dismounted and walked the horse in. The city was an odd mixture of old and new, ruined and rebuilt. Even from the far edges, Malja could see the Queen's palace high in the air, its towers and walls reflecting the morning sun. Whether it floated like the buildings of long ago or merely had been constructed large enough to tower over everything, she couldn't tell — too many burned out shells of buildings blocked the way. That was the city.
The urban epicenter was the palace. Radiating outward were blocks upon blocks of buildings that had been rebuilt, refurbished, or simply torn down for something new to take its place. The further one went out, the more the buildings remained ruins.
"Hey," a little voice called from an alley. "Lady."
Malja watched a young girl, probably no older than Tommy, scurry toward her. The girl appraised Malja's horse and said, "There's a stables over a few blocks. I'll take your horse for you. Won't even have to pay me now. The charge'll go on the stable bill."
Malja was about to tell the girl to go away, but she thought about how Fawbry would handle this. He understood cities better than her. And, much to her chagrin, he understood people better, too. He would use this little thief to his advantage.
"Come on now, lady. I won't hurt your horse."
"Take it," Malja said.
"Really?" the girl said. "Okay. You won't regret it. I promise I'll take extra special care. You have my word. What's her name?"
"Don't know. You name her."
The girl smiled so genuinely, Malja thought the girl hadn't smiled in years. "I will," the girl said. "I'll have to think about it. She'll be great for me. Er, that is, until you pick her up."
"Fine, fine. Just go."
The girl took the reins and led the horse further down the street. Once she was out of view, Malja trailed her, always keeping just out of sight. They headed deeper toward the center of the city. She watched as the buildings became nicer and the population more numerous.
People walked about, some working on rebuilding, some hurrying to another location, some laughing or singing. Malja had never seen such a busy place. So many people and all of them paying little attention to her presence. Oddest of all — nobody fought.
There were no threats or shouting or drawn swords. No screams of abuse. No smells of death.
Four women and their children walked by. They never acknowledged her. Malja tried to smile at the children, but they kept their eyes looking ahead.
Maybe Uncle Gregor had it right living alone in the woods. He hated it when people got industrious. Even when she had tried to widen their shack so he might have a private room (also, amazingly enough, giving her a private room in the process), he fought the idea. Gregor wanted to live free and simple. Yet he took Malja in when he could have easily let her fend for herself.
At length, the girl led the way toward an open square which was fenced off and filled with several horses. On the far end, a large stable crowded against a bar and a shabby residence. As the girl neared the stables, an ugly man stepped out to meet her.
He had greasy hair that seemed to be cleaner than his body. His ample paunch strained the buttons of his stained shirt, and every few moments, he coughed up phlegm to be spit on the ground. Most importantly, he had a dented dagger in his belt.
With a pat on the girl's head, the man pulled out several coins from his pocket and handed them over. The girl gave him the horse, making the trade with a cautious eye. She tried to say something about the horse and the man raised a hand to smack her. She jumped back out of reach, and feeling safer with her coins, she skipped off down the street as if stealing horses to survive made for a happy existence.
Malja could imagine all kinds of suggestions from Fawbry now, but this was something she knew how to handle best. Without any effort at hiding, she marched straight toward the man.
"Interested in a horse?" he asked, opening into a welcoming grin. From several feet away, Malja could smell the alcohol on him.
She stiff-armed him in the chest, grabbed his grime-ridden shirt before he could fall, and tossed him into the stables. She didn't need anybody outside to see what happened. At least she didn't have to worry about the man doing anything stupid — not yet. He was a seasoned criminal, apparently, and knew better than to attract unwanted attention. It would only make things worse.
"Look, if I accidentally picked up one of your horses, I apologize," he said while turning his back toward her. "I deal with a lot of them and sometimes they start to look alike."
Malja knew what was coming. Before the man had a chance to whip around with his dagger, she reached over, grabbed his wrist, yanked his arm back, and slammed her palm into his elbow — not enough to break the delicate joint, but enough to stop the man from doing anything more.
"Just take a horse, okay? No need to hurt me."
"What's your name?" Malja asked.
"Skeen."
"Well, Skeen, you've just volunteered to be my guide."
"W-What?"
"Two very important prisoners have been brought into the city," she said, pushing him away — his rank odor lingered behind. "You're going to take me to them."
Skeen's jaw jutted to the side as he thought. "I don't know about any special prisoners. Honest."
"But you know where such prisoners would go. The palace, perhaps?"
"No, no," Skeen said, puffing up with a little importance now that she had made it clear she wasn't going to kill him. "Queen Salia doesn't bring filth like that into her palace. Wouldn't want to dirty the floors. No, she has a guard station nearby though. It has a few holding cells that can be used for interrogations. Mostly so that she doesn't have to lessen herself by going into the main prison."
"Sounds like where I want to go. Take me there."
"Lady, I can't do that. If I leave, my horses'll be stolen."
"Not my problem. Let's go." Malja pushed Skeen toward the door.
"Please. I'll give you information but I won't leave these horses unguarded. I'll lose everything, and I won't lose everything for some no-name thug of a woman."
Malja raised her chin. "My apologies. I didn't introduce myself. I'm Malja of Corlin."
Skeen paused and then burst into a spit-filled laugh. "Oh, well then, Malja of Corlin, allow me to introduce myself. I'm King Skeen, the Queen's secret lover." He clutched his belly as he bent over laughing.
In a calm, smooth motion, Malja placed Viper right under Skeen's chin. The cool touch of metal cut away all his humor. She pressed Viper a bit harder. "I don't care if you believe me. I'll still kill you if you don't start helping me."
Skeen didn't move as the situation sunk into his alcohol-soaked brain. Then his entire being deflated — body and soul — right before her eyes. Never before had she seen such a complete loss of confidence occur so fast. Fear, worry — yes. But the way Skeen transformed from a blustering thief to a whimpering drunk amazed her.
"May I please send for my partner? He can watch the horses while we go."
"You've wasted a lot of my time."
"Aren't you going to need a horse or two when you want to leave? If my partner is here, he can have a few re
ady and waiting . . . in case you need to leave faster than you planned." His lack of subtlety did nothing to undermine his point.
"Hurry on it," Malja said.
"Yes. Yes. I will." Skeen ran out of the stable, crossed the street, and grabbed one of three boys leaning against a wall. He berated the boy, poked him in the chest several times, and slapped him across the head. The boy sprinted off. With a placating grin and enough hand gestures to start his own fighting style, Skeen returned to Malja. "It'll just be a moment."
Malja looked up and down the street, searching for trouble. The place actually looked rather peaceful. From one window, a woman leaned out and called a friend in another window. They two rattled off some words, both laughed, and they returned into the building.
As Malja walked over to her horse and pulled out the two guns she had pilfered from the other world, she said, "What's it like here? Living under Salia."
Skeen fished out a bag of seeds from his pocket and tossed a handful into his mouth. "We got food," he said and offered the bag to Malja. She shook her head. "And the city itself ain't a mess of crime. I suppose that's something."
"You're a thief. She hasn't stopped everything."
"Yeah, but I'm harmless. It's the killers and the rapists and that kind that you got to worry about. Salia's stopped a lot of that. Oh crap, are those guns?"
Malja winked as she strapped the weapons over her shoulders. "You like living under this crazy woman?"
"People here, they live decent."
"Not free, though. They have to follow whatever insane rules the Queen comes up with, right? I mean, isn't she just a glorified dictator?"
Skeen licked his filthy fingers. "Doesn't really matter. She's in charge. And since most of her rules are basic and obvious — things like, don't kill each other — well, we're okay with that. The kind of thing you're talking about, she reserves those laws for the magicians. I wouldn't want to be a magician around here, that's for sure."
The boy returned followed by a man that had to be Skeen's brother. He shared the same thick waist and the same greasy hair. Both men had bloodshot eyes and smelled like feces laced with alcohol.
"Allow me to introduce my brother, Allart," Skeen said with a silly bow.
Malja shoved Skeen. "Let's go." To Allart, she said, "Have three horses saddled and ready when I return."
As they walked off, Skeen pointed out the three horses he wanted prepared. His finger shook enough that Malja figured the brother would do as told.
"It shouldn't take us too long," Skeen said, leading her down an alley and toward the city. "If you don't mind, once we get there, I'll be leaving."
"This whole thing with the Order of Kryssta — is it because she hates magicians so much?"
Skeen picked his nose and flicked off his find. "Don't know anything about the Order. But when it comes to magicians, everybody knows Queen Salia hates them. I'd sooner be a murdering child rapist than a magician around here. Course, the real crap of it all is that she's a magician."
Malja stopped. "What?"
"Oh, yeah. Everybody knows that one. I mean, ain't that always the way of things? The person who hates something the most usually is that something."
Skeen headed down a street, the palace filling most of the sky as they moved closer in, and Malja trailed along, her mind trying to catch up with this new view of her enemy. "What spells can she do?"
"Who knows? She probably doesn't even know herself. By Kryssta, after magicians kill off all you care about and destroyed any family you loved, you may not be wanting to be one yourself. The way I see it, she's got a right to hate that side of her."
A rough voice, a military voice, barked out commands loud enough to be heard at least one street over. Skeen stepped against the wall and pointed toward the corner.
"Is that it? Around the corner?" Malja asked.
Skeen looked nauseous. "This is as far as I'll go. The army's been getting ready since the morning. I don't know what it's all about, but from everything you've been asking, I'm guessing I don't want to know. So, good luck, whoever you are. I promise the horses will be waiting for you."
Malja inched along the wall, trying to hear more. With her focus on the voice, she forgot about Skeen. Not surprisingly, when she turned back, he was gone.
The rough military voice came again. Malja shoved away all thoughts not directly connected with the voice. She backtracked and cut down another alleyway, then moved in closer, now at a better vantage. She pressed against a smooth wall.
"Load up those two grounders," the voice commanded. Malja peeked around the corner but nobody noticed her.
Several soldiers loaded horses and grounders and even a few flyers. Most of the grounders were open bed, dented, and rusting. A few had a closed cab.
Magicians sat on the vehicles, priming the engines with their spells. Other soldiers sharpened weapons, loaded quivers, and attached sheets of wood or metal to the vehicles. A thick-armed man, bald and sweaty, shouted the orders — he owned the voice Malja had followed.
"Hurry up with that armor," Baldy yelled. "We'll be taking the Queen to the Library soon. I want that flyer cleared off. We need to fit our prisoners and three guards on it."
Malja perked up and a tinge of joy rushed through her. She hadn't realized it until that moment, but somewhere in her mind, she had decided Owl and Fawbry were dead. Of course, the man only said the prisoners, but Malja couldn't imagine what other prisoners would be important enough to bring to the Library.
A loud bell clanged urgently. All the soldiers stopped and looked toward Baldy. Malja didn't have to look. That bell rang of trouble. A young soldier rushed up to Baldy, and the worry on his face as he broke the news confirmed Malja's thoughts — her boys had escaped.
Baldy pointed at two men. "Krig, Banrog — go help find those prisoners. The rest of you get back to work. We've got to be ready to go anytime now."
Krig and Banrog, both the kind of men most people feared, jumped off a grounder and jogged passed Malja's alleyway, heading further down the street. Malja let them go for a few feet before following as fast as she dared. The palace loomed in the sky.
Owl
Two bodies dropped to the floor. Owl stepped over them and peered down a hall lined with sculptures of Salia. He motioned for Fawbry to follow.
"Wow," Fawbry said, looking at the unconscious guards as he maneuvered around them. "I should give up all this and just travel around motivating people."
Keeping focused ahead, Owl said, "You certainly helped me." Somebody rang a bell rapidly.
"That would be for us," Fawbry said.
"Come on." Owl led them to a T-junction, his eyes roving the walls, looking for a specific door.
"Owl," Fawbry whispered behind him. "Over here."
Looking back, Owl saw that he had mistaken a life-sized carving for another piece of art. It was actually a door, and Fawbry's grin told Owl they had found his weapons. Quite a few weapons, it turned out. The room was loaded with confiscated swords and guns.
While Fawbry picked out a sword he liked, Owl saw his familiar blade just behind an official's desk. His skin tingled — though the Masters never allowed the trainees to name their swords, he still felt a kinship toward the object. He picked it up, felt the perfectly balanced weight, and a small bit of the tension he held fluttered away. Next to where the blade had lain, Owl saw his gun and holster. He examined it carefully — no damage — and he thought they might get out of this after all. That's when the official who sat at this desk returned.
"Hey," he said. "Stop right there."
Owl moved fast. He didn't want to kill, but he had to make sure the guard couldn't cause them trouble. He kicked a roundhouse to the guard's knee, stepped in as the man crumpled, and popped him in the temple with the hilt of his sword.
"Kryssta," Fawbry said. "You really are like the legends."
Owl's keen ears heard light footstep approaching. He pointed at the doorway with his sword and brought a finger to his lips.
Fawbry's eyes widened. He crouched behind the desk and waved Owl onward. Owl stepped closer to the doorway, raised his sword, and waited.
The footsteps halted a few feet before the door. Owl flexed his fingers and readjusted his grip. He cleared his mind, ignoring Fawbry, ignoring the pressure of trying to escape, ignoring the worries of what they had to accomplish. His mind thought of nothing but listening for any cue that the time to attack had arrived.
He heard breathing. Lowered his body. Readied to pounce.
The attack came so fast, Owl should have died. Only the fact that he had his sword positioned up saved him. It blocked the curved blade from severing his head. Curved blade?
"Malja?"
Malja slipped through the doorway, pulling Viper away. Her eyes took in the room and her shoulders let loose a little tension. "Good to see you alive. You, too, Fawbry."
The colorful robe waved from beneath the table. His head poked up just to the nose, just enough to look around. Then he stood with a huge grin. "Malja! Thank the brother gods."
"The code?" Owl asked.
"Of course she got the code," Fawbry said. "You really think she'd fail?" To Malja, he added, "You did get it, right?"
Flyer and grounder engines rumbled through the air. Horses whinnied. A deep voice yelled out commands.
"Damn," Malja said and peered out of the room.
"What's happening?" Fawbry said.
"Salia's leaving for the Library."
"But she needs us."
As Owl opened a drawer, removed two bullets, and loaded his gun, he shook his head. "She only needs blood. With us having escaped, she must have decided to use two other poor souls."
"Let's go," Malja said. "If we let her get to the Library, rescuing you two will have been pointless."
Following Malja into the hall, Fawbry said, "We're pointlessly fine, thanks."
Malja led them through several corridors, ducking them into an office while soldiers tramped by in the opposite direction. She led them with such brazen confidence that Owl understood how she had earned her reputation. It was more than just killing. She could be inspiring.
