Sword & Mythos

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  I wasn’t really sure how honor came into the picture when assaulting some sort of oversize sea animal, so I said nothing further. Réka was also silent.

  The carriage rolled on, shaking and noisy. We’d have to walk the last mile of the way to be able to strike with an element of surprise and I wasn’t looking forward to it — the air was growing unspeakably hot. I wished I had lighter clothing — we didn’t expect arrows to rain down on us, after all.

  The two carriages halted and we clambered down. The drivers looked anxious, eager to get away from the harbor, even though it was still beyond an arrow’s shooting distance. The sea was calm.

  Réka hissed and clutched at her stomach.

  “What is it?” I turned to her and whispered.

  She straightened up, pain in her eyes for a moment. “I — I think I’ve heard it,” she whispered back.

  “The monster?” I looked back at the harbor.

  “The call!” Her voice was insistent. “The spirits —”

  “Just save it until after the battle, all right? We’d best not get distracted.”

  I turned back to her and she nodded, acquiescing. She could be obedient if the need arose. If she wasn’t scared away by her first battle, then — who knew? — she could even become a good warrior. Not only a táltos who fought using a spirit form but also an archer in her own right. It all hinged on the first impressions ...

  Our leader signaled and we sneaked closer and closer to the harbor, using whatever meager cover we could find. We had to attack in broad daylight because the man who’d hired us claimed the monster gained in strength and size after nightfall.

  The two swordfighters at point had almost reached the sea when the surface moved, bulged. A round, flat head rose above the water line, its skin a shiny dark green.

  What emerged didn’t look like a spirit form; it looked like a real animal. But I could feel the power emanating from it, hitting me in the gut, hurting. I understood Réka’s hiss — she’d simply experienced it earlier, being much more sensitive to the spirits.

  I reached into my tegez and readied my first set of arrows for quick-draw.

  It opened its eyes.

  My hand froze mid-motion. It saw into me — right into me — and I knew it wasn’t an animal, not in the ordinary sense. Not like the wind-horse, either, majestic but ultimately connected to the human soul. It was akin to the turul bird, the ancestor of all Magyars, a vast, strong and carnivorous spirit.

  And it walked this earth, swam in the sea.

  Who were its people? Whom did it claim for itself?

  No one was moving. It seemed to me that no one was breathing. It was as if the water in the sea had stopped flowing. The monster rose and I knew with a cold certainty that was beyond even fear that it wanted to feed.

  Tell them to stop, Réka’s voice whispered in my head.

  My mouth opened almost unbidden. “Stop! Don’t move! Don’t attack!” I didn’t know the proper way military commands were phrased in Croatian, but my words had an immediate effect.

  Or maybe no one could move either way.

  I’d like to think I made a little change.

  Réka walked forward among us, a collection of fleshy statues. “You have awoken?” she said, a statement with the tones of a question. Then, “You’ve slept for a long, long time.” As if talking to a child.

  It towered above us, blocking the sun, and our heads followed it until our necks bent all the way back. My lungs burned.

  “Here I am,” she said to the creature. “You called.” I wanted to scream at her, drag her away.

  Protect her with my body.

  There were promises, convictions stronger than the sea. My legs moved. My neck snapped forward, muscles smarting from the sudden motion. I wanted to shout, but my larynx felt stopped up and my tongue numb. Every step was a battle against unimaginable force, the world itself pushing me back.

  Réka stopped, turned back to look at me in amazement. “Allow me,” she said, her voice apologetic. “Please. I was called.”

  I gasped for air, the pressure easing up a little — probably because I’d stopped straining forward.

  “It called me,” she said. “It wants to bind me to itself.”

  This? This monstrosity? I didn’t even dare to utter the words, because I knew even the smallest expression of my fear would nourish its hunger. Finally, I managed, “It wants to eat you.”

  It sounded so pedestrian. So mundane.

  She pursed her lips. “All spirits want to eat us. The táltos is someone who has enough strength to feed them.”

  I didn’t want to hear this. I was helpless against it.

  “I brought you here to help you. To protect you.” My throat tightened — this time, not from the mysterious force but from the emotion swirling inside my body.

  She spread her hands. I stared at her in the shadow of the giant. Her braids had become undone and her face was so open, so vulnerable — and yet, no longer childlike.

  “I vowed myself to this,” she said. “I was born for this, chosen for this.”

  Why was our way so cruel? We offered up our own young ... Why had I never seen this before?

  “Only those see who need to see,” Réka murmured and it was as if a veil lifted from my eyes.

  People talked of the spirits cutting the táltos apart, putting the body together as they saw fit. How figurative was that? How literal?

  But most spirit forms were of peaceable animals. The horse, the bull might seem intimidating, but everyone knows they eat grass, not flesh. No one offered themselves to the turul, a bird of prey — no one, save for someone in a half-forgotten, ancient legend ... It only led us, as an all-powerful figurehead, a creature of the sky that had come to us from the stars.

  Then why would she offer herself to this monster? Trust it with her soul?

  She shook her head. “Trust is unimportant. I need to sate its hunger, if only for the smallest moment.”

  And future moments, again and again, it rippled through the sky. I fell to my knees. Did that come from her? The creature was so vast I felt it was beyond our earthly cares, outside our world, even as it swam in its waters and trod its soil.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” she said. “I was the one who stopped you.”

  She turned around and walked into the sea. I could only watch, helpless. The water was to her thighs when it started and I more felt than heard the first crunch of bone breaking, resonating through the earth itself, invading me through my knees, my legs touching the ground. Then she fell face forward into the water, ever so slowly, and the sea muffled the sounds altogether, drank up the blood.

  The men had left, staggering away in twos and threes, making their way back to the town on foot even in the sweltering heat. I stayed.

  The monster did not acknowledge me. I knew it was busy digesting. Did it eat the flesh? Did it eat the soul? What need did it have for such a small body and a mind it could easily eclipse? Did it want a servant on land, someone who could spread its fear, provide nourishment at every step? Or did it have motives entirely incomprehensible to us?

  What was the endpoint?

  When the creature allowed me to stand, I stood. I paced. I railed at it. I begged it to give her back to me. I shouted and swore. I yelled for the turul to appear and bring down its wrath from the skies, but the turul never appeared. Maybe I wasn’t strong enough. Maybe it was intimidated. Overpowered. I shuddered to think. Still, I screamed.

  I’d like to think I made a change. I know it’s probably not true.

  Finally, the monster left, submerging itself in the clear seawater, too shallow for such a giant. Making its way for deeper regions.

  As it vanished from my sight, the water washed her ashore. Unbroken, if only in shape.

  She sat up slowly, gingerly, and we walked back to the town in silence. Prepared ourselves for the long trip ahead. Her words came halting, hesitating, but, even still, with newfound maturity.

  We ended up staying for
a week, getting ready ever so slowly, with regret. The creature did not return to the harbor and the man who hired us showered us with wealth. Among our gifts for the people back home, I bought some choice seashells from enterprising children.

  The challengers started showing up soon after we’d arrived in our camp, drawn by the youth of our new táltos.

  V.

  I shake my head slowly.

  Réka steps forward and the crowd murmurs before quieting again. She is among her folk here, but she doesn’t draw on our strengths the way it is customarily done. She discards the advantage.

  I could never be a táltos, but even I can feel the way the stranger’s stomach contracts, the way his fear engulfs him — just for a moment. Réka disregards this. She always plays by the rules and it is not yet time to attack.

  She looks to the distance, over and above the clouds, but reaches down, into the depths.

  The creature rises and had I not seen it with my own eyes on that day by the seashore, I’d assume it to be unreal, a figment of the imagination as easily dissolved as the clouds, as ephemeral.

  The monstrous shape holds. Tentacles twist around, eyes move to survey the land. Sacs bulge and deflate.

  The stranger is breathing fast, a hoarse, wheezing sound almost like the whinnying of a horse. His spirit form tries to gallop away, but in an instant, the sea-creature is upon it, tentacles whipping, claws ripping into ghostly flesh.

  Dark blood streaks the sky. The sea-creature triumphs, even faster than the previous time; it changes shape, unfolds gooey wings semi-transparent against the sunlight reemerging through clouds. It gloats, sitting atop the disemboweled carcass of the horse, head tentacles rippling in a soft motion. Does it smile at us?

  Then it vanishes and only the stranger is left, lying in his own vomit, his trousers wet. Réka sits down, shaking, and someone puts a warm, thick guba across her shoulders. She pulls it close to herself and closes her eyes.

  I don’t think she’s upset. The man will live, though he probably won’t fight anyone ever again. It’s only that calling up such an unusual spirit form takes a lot out of her and she looks exhausted. It’s only that, nothing more. At least, so I tell myself.

  THE BONES OF HEROES

  BY ORRIN GREY

  Hush, my child. Quiet now. Save your tears. Your sadness and your terror hold no savor for me.

  I know how it must seem to you, what you must think, but I assure you that you’re in no danger from me. My appearance is distressing, I know. For all the trailing cloak I wear, you can see that I no longer move … correctly. And though I keep my hood up, you’ve seen the fire’s light glint off too many eyes, maybe even seen it catch the edge of a mandible. You’ve seen enough to know that I’m not some misunderstood crone, peddling poultices and tinctures out in the woods, and you’re right enough.

  I’m the real thing and my kind traffic with great, old powers. Powers that can change the very face of nature. And in so doing, our own faces are changed. We become like those things we favor. The bat, the toad, the rat, the spider. And eventually, yes, we are driven to cannibalism. I’ve never known it to fail. The greater powers come with greater prices. You’ve heard stories, no doubt, of children carried off by witches and eaten up, cooked in an oven, boiled in a pot, turned over a spit, or just gobbled raw. And certainly, there are some of my sisters in whose tender mercies you would suffer just that very fate. But my palate is attuned to other fare.

  Somewhere out there, in the dark and the storm, a hero is coming for you. He’s getting close now. The sinews of his mighty arms stand out as he grips his sword in a white-knuckled fist, anticipating the feeling of it slicing through my hideous neck. The spiders that spin their webs in the corners make music that tells me of his approach. They hear it from the bats and from the rain that beats on the roof and from the whispers of the very stars. And from there, they bring it to me. They tell me of his journey, of the perils he faces, and I grow impatient.

  I’m counting on him, you see. Counting on his having grown up with the same stories you’ve heard. I’m counting on his belief that he’s saving you from a terrible fate, from being eaten by the monstrous witch. He needs to know that, without him to intercede, your fate is sealed.

  The fact is, the flesh and blood of children do nothing for me. They taste sweet enough, I suppose, but they cannot sustain me. Perhaps it’s because I, too, once dreamed of towers and princesses and gallant heroes on rushing steeds. Whatever the reason, I’ve come to live on the bones of heroes.

  It doesn’t matter if he comes with money in his purse, or with a heart filled to bursting with noble sentiment. It doesn’t matter if he’s your brother, or your father, or a stranger to whom you are unknown. Though they tell themselves differently, the noble man-at-arms and the ruthless mercenary are not so different where it counts. In every would-be hero is the same thirst for glory, the same unerring sense that they are right and whatever stands against them wrong. That’s what I need from them, what I feast upon, and I know that your hero will be bringing it with him.

  Then, when I trick him, when I trap him, when he falls and when he fails, he’ll know, in his last moments, that he has failed. He’ll believe, as the life drains from him, that he’s done more than die - he’s killed you in the bargain. And that belief will seep into his heart and his blood. It will sweeten them and strengthen them for me, so that when I drink his blood and eat his heart, they will sustain me for that much longer. Long enough for me to disappear, to slip away, to build my web anew someplace far from here.

  And when I’ve killed him, when I’ve drained him and eaten him and there’s nothing left but the marrow-sucked bones and the tarnished sword, I’ll free you from your prison, I swear it. I have no use for you, except as bait, and I’ll not harm a single hair on your head. You’ll be free to return to your family, to the loving arms of your parents, to whatever brothers and sisters you may have left behind, but in exchange, I ask you this one boon.

  Never speak of this. When you’re free and back among your people, do not tell them this story. Tell them that I was an ogre, a monster. Tell them I spoke of grinding your bones to make my bread, of bathing in your hot blood. Tell them I meant to destroy you, to devour you, that I spoke of nothing but how I longed to dine on the supple flesh of young children. Tell them the hero died saving you, gave his own life so that you could escape. Tell them all of this and thus let the story grow, and spread, so that when some other hero, in some distant land, hears of a child abducted by witches, he’ll know, in his heart, what fate awaits them. So that he will come to me in the dark of some night, with that heart full and ripe and delicious with his belief.

  I ask only that you give me that oath. Should you ever think to break it, remember the ease with which I snatched you from your bed this time and think again.

  LIGHT

  BY DIANA L. PAXSON

  What I remember most about the dig in Greenland is the perpetual light. That, and the taste of the air, as if no one had breathed it since the beginning of the world. Which is ironic, since what we found there was older than the earth and darker than man’s deepest fears.

  For me, it began with a dream.

  I was in a great, timber-framed building like a Viking hall. In the long hearth blazed a fire. Shields hung on the wall. Men were sitting on benches to either side, singing as the mead horn went round. They called out to me, but it was the man in the high seat who held my attention. One eye was hidden, the other fixed on something no one else could see. Then he straightened and that single gaze speared me.

  “So, my dark battle maid.” I heard him clearly though his lips did not move. “You are here. Welcome. We have work to do.”

  Then I woke up, grateful that it was only the dream that had haunted me since I was a leggy black kid looking for a way out of the slums of Baltimore, and not the nightmare of fleeing endlessly down dark passageways pursued by something that would swallow my soul. I had been living with that one since I arrived.
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br />   By the time we had put in most of a day’s work on the Norse site halfway up the western coast of Greenland, I had forgotten it, until I saw an old man who wore an eye-patch following Dr. DuBois, our director, up the path. He leaned on a tall walking stick and his worn sealskin poncho flapped as the breeze strengthened once more.

  “I hear he’s called ‘Harbard,’” said Susan. Red-haired and fortyish, she was an assistant professor from the University of Indiana and the only other woman on our team. “From one of the Ministries in Nuuk.”

  “Hoar-beard … A nickname, I’d guess.” I frowned, trying to remember where I had heard that name.

  The site lay above a ridge of green turf scattered with Greenland bluebells. The members of our team added a further note of color — Susan in her pale blue anorak and beyond her, the Danish boy in the red hoodie. The two guys from UCLA had stripped down to the neon orange sweatshirts with the logo of the expedition. On a blue sea dotted with chunks of ice, one of NUNAOIL’s research vessels floated like a toy ship. Behind us, toothed mountains snarled at the sky.

  “I suppose he’s come to check on our progress,” said Stamford, a University of Alberta grad student with the build of a football player.

  “What progress? Whatever we’re digging, it’s not a farm.” I looked up at the ice shelf beyond our site, stained with brown at the edge and glowing a startling, electric blue where the sun shone through. No other Viking site had been found at the edge of the ice.

  Harbard’s single gaze came to me and the bushy brows came down.

  I glared back. Haven’t you ever seen a black woman before? But maybe he hadn’t. Not a long-legged, coffee-colored woman with close-cropped black hair. Not here. I, on the other hand, was used to people who wondered what I was doing in college, or in a graduate program in archaeology, or in medieval armor on a SCA tournament field. It was an old anger, as swiftly repressed as recognized, but it always took me by surprise.

  “Tonya, that’s why it’s so important!” Josh exclaimed. He picked up the brush and began to tease away the earth he had loosened with his trowel. Blond and enthusiastic, he was a friend from the Kingdom of the East who had gotten me the place on the dig. “Maybe this site will show us what really happened to the Greenland colony.”