by Simon Birks
Down, she thought, for if she couldn’t go up, it was the only option left. Jenza fell quickly. She never thought they would end, falling through the flies. They caught in her hair, in her nose, in her mouth. Then she was clear of them. The noise they made was above her. Stop, she thought, and she did stop.
Jenza looked.
It was the most awful sight she had ever seen: a vast battlefield of death, stretching far into the distance. Corpses, not long dead, lay two or three deep, faces caught in the last horrific expression of death. This had not been a battle. Something told her that. This had been a slaughter. They had not stood a chance.
Jenza forced herself to look closer. And she saw what she knew she’d see. These were her people. Not just men, but women and children, too.
None of them have weapons.
This had not even started out as a battle. These people had been… rounded up here… and then, murdered. This was an annihilation.
Jenza cried.
*
In the house of Aponser’s father, the old lady watched over Jenza’s troubled sleep. The old lady knew she could soothe her, but for that she’d have to go into a trance, and she didn’t trust her father not to kill them both.
He was not with them, preferring to tuck himself away somewhere else in the house. No doubt he’d be cooing over his new seed, wondering whether he should sell it for profit, or squander its properties on himself. She hoped he would sell it.
Vengeance was with them now. It would last eight hours. A slumber, and then it would go. She could feel it, and its prying nature. It never came inside, but it could, she knew that. Like she knew there was something in the darkness, using it. The Vengeance was not to be trusted.
Aponser stood and looked at the young woman. She had a gift, and she wondered what it might be. Part of her hoped they might be friends, but another part knew that friends were trouble. They betrayed, they complicated, and they died. Still, it had been a while since she had travelled with anyone, and the pair of them together was undoubtedly stronger than them being…
She almost missed it.
Her thoughts snagged on the future, she almost forgot where they were. The sword swooped. In the back of Aponser’s mind she saw a colour. It was red. And red to Aponser was danger. The red had a direction, and a position. It allowed her to react. She ducked, the sword clanged on the wall beside her.
She should have guessed. She’d shown him something too powerful. He was weak, greedy, and stupid. She was his daughter, she was no one.
In front of her, where she’d sat, Aponser saw the pile of leaves she’d arranged. She did it everywhere she went. If people asked, she’d tell them it was an offering to her God for protection, and she supposed in a way it was. Until it was needed.
Fire was difficult to make by magic. It took years, many more years than Aponser had been alive for, to conjure even the smallest flame, and to sustain it. To enslave a flame meant you had climbed high up the pyramid of spells. Few would be able to match you, let alone defeat you. Aponser had dedicated many hours of thought, repetition, and concentration to its mastery, and she used all of that practice and experience to conjure what she could now; a solitary spark. But it was enough, for even a solitary spark knew how to light a fire, and the collection of leaves, when mixed, pressed, and squeezed, became very receptive to a spark.
Aponser watched the flames ignite. The blade was coming back toward her now, from the other direction. She rolled backwards with the grace of someone a quarter of her age, and used her magic to propel the fire in a spear toward her attacker.
It hit its eyes, as she’d intended, and it staggered back against the doorway. She gasped. It was not her father, who she now saw in the doorway, lying face down. This was someone, or something else.
Aponser rose up, took a bottle from her hip, and threw it at the invader’s feet.
“Derathia!” she shouted as the bottle exploded, and a darkness flowed out and over the screaming man. It smothered him within seconds, and then it was gone.
Aponser turned and looked at the sleeping girl. She was unharmed and unconscious. Next, she went to her father, bent down and examined the wound across his front. There was nothing she could do about it, he wasn’t going to survive.
The old woman took his head in her hands.
“Father?” she said. “Father, can you hear me?”
The man opened his eyes. He looked at her, his brow furrowed.
“Was this you?” he asked.
The breath was taken from her. She didn’t know what to say. How could he think this was her fault? Aponser shook her head.
“No, no, it was not me,” she told him, but the look in his eyes told her he was no longer there, he had escaped to whatever life came next.
She felt angry. So angry, with this stupid man. It was not fair that she should care for him so much, when he had given so little in return. Why had he opened the door in the Vengeance? He knew better than that, surely? Aponser looked at him, and felt suddenly alone.
This had no meaning. The Vengeance had attacked them, and she’d never heard of that happening. There must have been something powerful that it sought. The old woman looked at Jenza.
Yes, it must be the girl. Well, for now, she had the girl, and she’d be a fool to let her go.
Leaves
Visenai sat in the bunker of the house, watching the figure applying ointment to the unconscious Hossip’s back. Next to him, Ma Poppun lay prone on a table, eyes shut, her breathing slow but steady.
Visenai yawned, bent towards the cook and smoothed away some hair that lay across her face. She walked to the table where the coachman was being treated, and stood across from the figure, applying a salve.
Visenai didn’t know what it was. Couldn’t even tell if it was a girl or a boy. It was a deep brown, with a textured skin of raised circles about half the size of her fist, or perhaps the circles had sides, it was hard to tell in the candlelight. She was certain it was the thing they’d seen at the carriage with Hossip, the thing that shot him with poison. If so, why was it helping him now?
Perhaps it wasn’t poison. Yes, perhaps it wasn’t poison.
It had been a different size at the carriage, a slightly different shape, and as Visenai watched it work she saw it could change its shape, the raised circles contracting and expanding depending on what it needed to do.
She had never seen or heard of anything like it. But it had saved them, burst through the wall of fire, and carried Ma Poppun and Hossip to safety.
It had felt… she wanted to say fantastic, but in truth, she didn’t really know how it had felt. She’d been there, yet it was like she’d been watching it happen to someone else.
Visenai reached out and touched the creature on one of its limbs. It stopped, and Visenai had a feeling it was looking at her.
“Thank you,” she said. “You saved us.”
The creature remained still. Then it nodded, and returned to applying the ointment.
Leaves, she heard in her head. She looked towards the floor, and there were a small pile of leaves in a bag there. She went and fetched them.
Lay them, the voice old her, and Visenai started to place each leaf, glossy side down, on Hossip’s back. One after the other. It took a while, but when it was done, the figure placed a light cloth over the coachman, and stepped away.
Visenai leaned and kissed Hossip’s forehead.
There was a stretching noise, and Visenai looked towards the creature. It was stretching. It had needed to be low when treating Hossip, but now it was finished, it stretched upwards.
The creature moved toward the exit. Visenai thought it was going to leave, but when it got there, it stopped, and waited.
It’s guarding us, she thought.
The girl looked at her companions, unconscious. She wanted them to be a team, but she didn’t know if they were. She needed so very many things, she realised, in the quiet of the bunker.
She walked to the strange creature, stop
ped just short of it, and curled up on the floor. Within seconds she was asleep. The creature looked at her briefly, before returning to its treacherous duty.
Polite
Hoep hadn’t moved from the barn loft. He’d watched Ka Yeta come in, bringing Gideon with her. The boy had been shaking, he was sure, and for a moment he’d wondered about helping them.
They don’t need my help, he thought.
He had napped then, had needed to nap. When he woke, he’d been expecting his possessions to have gone, along with Orsa, yet nothing had moved, and he felt a little guilty.
“You snore,” the thief had whispered in the darkness, and Hoep had nearly laughed.
She didn’t want the others to know she was there, he could tell that. It was understandable. He looked down towards them. They had both quickly settled, Gideon as far away from the door as possible, Ka Yeta very near to it. They were both sound asleep; whatever had happened outside had exhausted them.
Hoep, unaccustomed to speaking with thieves in the lofts of barns, resorted to the one thing he did very well; being polite.
“I’m sorry to have taken over your barn like this,” he said.
“The barn isn’t mine,” Orsa replied, “I was just putting it to use.”
“I see.” Hoep smiled. “Thank you for not killing me.”
“I only take material things,” Orsa explained. “Your soul is safe with me.” There was a small pause. “That sounded less creepy in my head.”
Hoep almost laughed again. It was funny how some people could make you happy by just being near them.
“You do not seem concerned by my need of the dark,” Orsa said. “Why is that?”
“Why should I worry, when I don’t think twice of my preference for light? That would seem hypocritical.”
“That is a good argument.”
Hoep waited for more. Nothing came.
“Does the light hurt you?” he asked.
“Yes,” came her reply. Her voice rose, like she was relieved to talk about it. “I have secrets, and the light hurts them.”
“If you told me your secrets, would it hurt less?”
“I’m not sure,” Orsa said. “It… might.”
“Then please, tell me one of your secrets. I can promise it’ll go no further.”
Orsa
Orsa’s breath caught in her throat. This man wanted to help her. She was guarded. She had to be guarded. She was a thief, after all. But he had asked her for a secret, and she wanted to tell him one. There were so many…
“I will tell you one,” she heard herself say, and she knew it was one of the big ones. If she released a big secret, perhaps she could go into the light. Maybe only partly, maybe just deep shadows, but that was better than full dark.
Her heart was racing.
“There is another place,” she said, “and in this place there was a sister and a brother. The brother was king. A big, fat, stupid king, who has hardly anything to do with this story, apart from being fat and stupid, and letting the whole thing happen for want of his next meal.”
Orsa looked at the man. He was smiling, and looking towards her. He could not know exactly where she was, but it looked like he was looking into her eyes.
“And like the fat and stupid king, the palace and the court had grown fat and stupid, too. They wondered little about anyone apart from themselves, and that meant they couldn’t see where it all was heading. The sister called a counsel with the king. She told him he should change his ways, but the brother was too arrogant to listen, and the king accused her of being against the monarchy. He had her flogged in front of the court and banished from the kingdom. The sister took this punishment. She took it, because she loved her stupid brother, and did not want to question him. She had tried, and she knew to try more would be signing her own death warrant. So the sister left with her clothes and her scars, and waited in the wilderness.”
“I like your story,” Hoep said.
“And I like telling it,” Orsa replied. “Thirty years previous, a creature had been born in the kingdom. It had a name; Dissent. And over the years the creature grew and travelled. It wrote words, spread whispers, and soon it started to speak in groups. But it was clever. Cunning. Not bad. Dissent was not bad. It had been born of its time. It stayed low, and gathered foundations. It sent its followers into the fat of the court, to gather information, to be there when ready. This is what it found. There was another creature, this one called Revolution, and this creature lived with the soldiers and commanders of the army. It had grown too. Not as old as Dissent, but bigger and more powerful. Dissent knew it was not big enough to defeat Revolution. So, it changed tack. It spoke in whispers to Revolution. And the two had a common ground. The two together could see they were more terrible than any one thing. And they rose, and they conquered. And not a soul was left. Not the king, not the court. And they thought all would be well. That peace would fall upon the land. But all was not well. The spoils of war spoiled them. They had big eyes, and large scores to settle. There was never going to be enough for the two of them. So, a new war broke out, and this time it was not swift. The sides were too well-matched. And all this time, the dead king’s sister had waited. She had waited and she had learnt. And this is what she’d learnt. There was a way. A way she could regain the crown. There was one final battle. One massive offensive both sides knew would be the last. And on that day, in the midst of the bloodiest battle the world had ever seen, the first darkness came, and it took them all. And when the darkness was done, the sister emerged and she took the standard of the kingdom and walked into the city unchallenged. It was righteous. It was noble, and the people rejoiced at seeing her again.”
*
“The darkness you mention, that sounded like the Vengeance,” Hoep said.
“Yes,” Orsa replied.
“She knew how to bring the Vengeance?”
“It was in her power, and the people bowed to her because of it.”
“And where is this kingdom? Does she rule there now?”
“This was some time ago. Hundreds of years. The kingdom of the Night Queen has long since fallen.”
Hoep was a little confused.
“And so what is the secret? The Vengeance is the secret?”
“Oh, no,” Orsa said. “The secret is,” she leant forward just the slightest amount, “the secret is, I am the sister.”
Tale of the Vengeance
Hoep could just about see Orsa now. She was smaller than he’d thought. Her hair was dark, long, and braided. Her complexion was the rich brown of the eastern people. She was a mixture of beautiful, stoical and sad. She looked at him, her gaze direct.
“But you look young…”
“I am changed,” she said. “What you see here is what I looked like when I first found the Vengeance. Although it was not called the Vengeance then, of course.”
“Found it?”
“I am a thief. My brother chose to be a king, and I chose to be a thief. Not from the common people. Though in the quiet hours I wonder if that is because they simply had nothing I wanted. In the quiet hours I wonder who the worst sibling really was.”
She was quiet then. Hoep studied what he could see of her. Then he said, “Go on, I’m interested to hear more.”
“I stole from the wealthy. And I was pretty good. Not perfect. Perfection is one step away from being caught. I was just pretty good. And this was how it was for many years, after my exile. I would trade the goods. There was little point holding onto finery when the only house I had to fill it with was a cave. My name got around, at least the name I chose to go by back then, as someone for the traders to come to, for a certain type of goods. I would trade food, and clothes for my bounty. Sometimes weapons, but I was never keen on weapons.”
Hoep nodded.
“Then one night, I was awoken, and standing over me was a man, silhouetted in the moonlight.”
The Vengeance
It was a warm night, which was always welcome when your home w
as a cave. Orsa remained alert but still, as the figure stood above her. It was unnerving, though she was certain he didn’t mean her any harm. It felt like he’d been waiting for her to wake up.
The thief gripped the knife she slept next to.
“You won’t need that,” the man said.
“Then maybe you can afford me a little distance.”
The silhouette retreated towards the cave entrance. He turned after a few paces. “Is this far enough, or would you rather I moved a little farther out and fell down the rock face?”
“Either,” Orsa said.
She pushed herself up. The scars on her back that her brother gave her were itching furiously tonight.
“I have something,” he said. “You might be interested in it.”
“It’s the middle of the night; I’m hoping it will be very interesting.”
“You are not part of the war?” the man said, without much conviction.
Orsa got the impression he cared neither one way nor the other.
“No, I am not,” she replied. “Stay a while. I will set a fire to see by.”
“There’s no need,” the man said.
There was a suppressed urgency to his voice, Orsa could tell.
“No need?” she replied. “I am not sure about you, but I certainly need to see what I’m trading.”
“I require nothing from you, bar a promise.”
Orsa laughed.
“You’re asking for a promise from a thief?” she said. “You think you can trust me?”
“I do not come here to see you, the thief. I come here to speak to Orsa, the dead king’s sister.”
“Never heard of her. Anyone to do with the king died long, long ago.”
“Whilst that is mostly true, let’s not fool ourselves. I do not wish to harm you. Like you, I am on neither side of the war. I merely wish for the unrest to end.”
“And how would you do that?”
