“You mean you’d rather die choking on nuts? I’m sorry.”
The boy spat, eyes closed to slivers. “I mean, are you not here to kill me?”
A flash of the obvious smacked Buzzard. “You’re the prince heir.”
The boy rolled onto his bottom and wrapped weak arms around his blade—thin knees. “You didn’t know?”
“I thought you were a vigil, or maybe your mother testing me—”
“That snake is no mother of mine.” Hate licked every word. “And if you say so again, I will kill you where you stand.”
Buzzard sat, cross legged, manacled hands in his lap. “Well, from suicidal to murderous. You are a young man of many emotions, Prince... I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Konrad.”
“Lord Konrad.”
“Not while she’s staining the throne.”
“Not an admirer of your Protector?”
Malice gripped the boy’s eyes.
“Ah, did away with your mom, did she?”
Konrad looked around. “Buried her alive in this garden, and cursed her spirit. I can still hear her sobs coming from the thornberry blossoms.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“Will you be sorry tomorrow when you kill me?”
A quick stab of guilt gripped his heart from every angle and made it hard to swallow. He coughed. “Who told you this?”
Konrad tore at grass. “I am no fool, gladiator. While she thinks me weak, I am also cunning. I listen to mice. To bugs. To the pollen in the air. Even if I have no power to change my fate, I know what it will be.”
“Unless you choke on a nut.”
Konrad glared. “Some of us don’t have the grand choices of the arena to pick our deaths. But at least a suicide would stain her reputation as Protector, and perhaps bring one of my uncles from the Qurile Mountains to come challenge her.”
“Is that what you want?”
He shook his head. “All I want is Mother free from this garden.”
“And how can that be done?”
“Why should I tell my aunt’s assassin?”
Buzzard cooled his nerve. Assassin. The word was poison to what little honor he had left.
“I’m your entertainment, my prince. I’ve been hired to show you the virtues of manly conduct through beast wrestling. I will do this, and it will spark the manly virtues inside you and make you a great man.”
Konrad, stunned, took a moment to let the words work their magic in his head. “And what would happen if I fail to become a warrior born, in the wake of your act?”
“I’d suggest you make peace with the gods you cherish, because you’ll be buried here with your mother before the sun kisses the horizon.”
Konrad tossed grass aside. “Then I was better off choking in the afterlife. At least I could haunt that rotten cow. Tell me, Gladiator—”
“My name is Buzzard.”
“Buzzard. Before you seal my fate——who sealed yours? You were once a freeman? How did you end up a slave of my aunt?”
Buzzard wiped his face. In all the leagues he’d traveled, no one had ever asked. “In my last fight, they tossed a starved tiger cub at me.” The crowd’s laughter cackled in the back of his mind. “It bit my leg, so I killed the tiny thing. Killed it for being hungry.
“Then they released its mother.” Roars filled his ears like the tides of his youth. “They all wanted blood. Mine, hers, they drank us both dry... but I’d never seen a beast fight so hard. So noble.”
“But you won.”
Buzzard nodded. “Only the match. My last match. I hoisted the beast in the air as if it were dead. But I’d only made it slumber with a choke, a more vicious variation than the manacle one you just enjoyed. And as they opened the gates, I carried it over my bleeding shoulder like a royal present. Into freedom.” Buzzard ran his hands through the grass. “Past the rose—petal parade the crowd had prepared, past the charnel house I’d dreamed of slaking my thirst in, past the comforts of a bath and bed made of more than mangy straw. I took the sleeping tiger up the cliffs of Craysus, where none of the wandering peasants could follow. As the chill of night bit us, she awoke.
“I knelt before her, neck out. But she would not strike me dead. A layman would say she was scared, but I knew she wanted me to live. And suffer. She followed me, directed me, until I found the one job that she approved. Buffooning.
“And that that’s what I’ve been doing until now. Replaying that last fight, reminding me each time of what I did to her. Until she finally decides it’s time I die.” He shook his head. “But she never does.”
A knock came from the stone door, and Konrad ran into the thick grass. “I am not allowed on the grounds. Thank you for telling me your story, Buzzard.”
“Vagrant,” said the vigil, a fresh bruise the size of Razor’s left paw throbbing on his cheek. “Time to give your beast its teeth.”
Buzzard chuckled, and stood. “I remember the first time she slapped me. Still hurts when I eat hard bread.” Each bite, each shock of pain, a grim reminder of the invisible chains fastened to his very bones.
The guard grimaced and yelled at him to hurry up.
* * *
Buzzard pulled Razor’s cage to the great stone door, led there by the captain.
“I find it a shame that you’ve been reduced to this,” said the captain.
“Funny,” Buzzard said. “I thought it rather fitting.”
“You have an odd sense of humor for a man about to entertain the prattle of royalty.”
“It keeps me young.”
The captain smiled.
Sunlight, green, and screeching laughter assaulted him in the perpetual spring of the cursed garden. Razor snorted, eyes shut. Buzzard pulled a tarp over the cage. “Alright, old girl,” he whispered. “Showtime.”
Above on the balcony was a handful of children in bright finery, making more noise per person than a legion of drunks in the front row of the Hadic Arena. Konrad stood to the side; behind him was Lady Astra. The stone rail he leaned on was a shade lighter than the rest.
Buzzard pulled the cage into the center of the garden grounds. He coughed once into his hand, took a deep breath, and let his voice boom.
“Ladies and Gentleman, boys and girls, and our Lady Astra. Welcome to the resplendent spring gardens of Keep Baltikum for today’s birthday celebration honoring the young and dapper Prince Konrad, who is turning thirteen today. A lucky boy, a lucky number, and with any luck he’ll see many more.” He bowed.
“Hurry up!” a child yelled.
“Release the monster!” screamed another.
“In due time, my young masters. For within this cage lies the most ravenous beast to prowl the empire. Found in the black jungles mountains of Garad Moir, it took two legions to subdue her and another legion to load her into her cage and another legion to remove her. She is the undisputed, ferocious, Mountain Queen——Lady Razor!”
He tore off the tarp.
Razor’s custom metal teeth glistened in the sunlight like daggers the size of men’s arms, and the children gasped.
Until Razor farted so hard her tail twirled.
Laughter rained down. He smiled up. Yes, we’re both jokes, idiots, playthings for the privileged. Laughing most of all, with her iron—blue eyes was Lady Astra, powdered hands stern on Konrad’s shoulders.
Konrad stood stoic. With death at his shoulder, even at a tender age, he’d found peace and solace. He did not look at the show but at the thornberry bush imprisoning his mother.
So that was a noble noble, Buzzard thought. A first time for everything.
“Lady Razor has the hearts of two lions that she swallowed whole in the beast hunts of Mersa Lanor! And though it may mean certain death, I shall seek to best her in a contest of strength and sinew until one of us is dead.” He yanked the latch. “Dead!” The trap door dropped and Razor yawned, metal teeth barely opening. “Dead!”
More laughter.
Buzza
rd sighed, grabbed Razor’s collar and pulled her from the bottom of the cage. “Alright, Mountain Queen. Prepare to be tested!”
They ran through the tumbles and bumps, grips and leaps, Buzzard tossing and turning with her as she barely noticed, thrashing about to make it look real... and coming off like am Emperor’s counterfeit smile.
And as they tussled on the ground, Buzzard snaking his python choke around Razor’s mighty neck, he spied the balcony. All the children were leaning over, pointing and laughing, ignoring Lady Astra, who smiled and nodded, then shoved Konrad hard into the stone rail until—
The stone crumbled.
And Buzzard flexed with enough real pressure to snap Razor from her malaise stupor. She saw the powdered hands outstretched, shoving a child into the abyss.
Buzzard released the hold and dashed across the courtyard, diving with his manacled arms outstretched to catch the sickly boy. He twisted as he crashed into the wall beneath the balcony, ribs crackling. Konrad was a crumpled doll in his hands.
The boy looked at him, petrified. “What are you doing? If I don’t die here, she’ll torture us both forever.”
“I doubt that,” Buzzard said with a grunt. “Watch.”
Razor growled up at the balcony. Then leapt.
Grey claws snapped out of her paws, digging into the walls like daggers in flesh. With a spider’s grace, she scaled the sheer rock surface, rubble trailing her leaps. Before the first screams ended, she was on the balcony. Lady Astor cried once. “Guards!”
Children howled as Razor leapt down from the balcony, blocking the sun, and crashed to the ground. In her metal maw was Lady Astra. Bright red streams burst out from the Lady’s wounds. She trembled, the ghost of life still in her angry blue eyes.
“Happy birthday, Your Highness,” Buzzard said, releasing Konrad.
Konrad approached the tiger with the courage of a champion. Razor spat out Lady Astra before him.
“Free her, Astra” Konrad ordered, pointing at the thornberry bush. “Free her, or I shall incant as you did, so that you take her place in that wooden prison!”
Her eyes flared red, briefly. Soft, sacred words came from her trickling mouth. Then her wretched form crumbled.
In a flash, a flock of black birds rose from the thornberry bush, piercing the blue sky with shadowy forms that spoke of higher powers. The garden’s sweetness lightened and a chill began to grow, but a stream of golden light descended. Konrad fought tears that dripped onto his tiny fists. He shook, watching the birds disappear into the gold and blue heavens and whispered “Your prison is broken. Mother... goodbye.”
Razor spat out her stained metal teeth. A mighty breath rolled from her nose and across Konrad’s face. She licked his tears clean, then walked into the thick lush grass.
“Where... where is she going?” Konrad said, touching his face.
Buzzard wiped his nose and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “To the ghost hills of her people. Where she belongs. She’s earned it.”
“As have you, gladiator,” the vigil, Meris, said as the guards rushed in. “You’ve committed regicide.”
“No,” Konrad said, “that mighty creature committed regicide. This man saved the heir to the throne. We do not hang selfless patriots in Baltikum. We make them part of the honor guard. If, Buzzard, you will accept me as your king. I will have need of men of velour and cunning.”
Breathing hard, ribs seething, Buzzard watched Razor’s slow saunter into the green. She did not look back.
No, he thought. No parade, no triumph, no mortal peace should follow this victory. His just reward rested in darker fields.
He gripped the boy’s shoulder. “I accept you as my king. But I serve another.” He followed Razor into the long grass.
“Wait!” Konrad called
Buzzard winced, ribs grating with the steps, but followed Razor. “Rule well, Lord Konrad. Remember the courage you showed today, and your people will follow you to the heart of hell and back.”
The prince cried out behind him. But Buzzard marched on.
He found Razor by the thornberry bush. A deathly white shadow encased her. Her energy, spent in one last great hunt, worthy of story, had burned bright and brief and now she longed for the peace of long sleep on distant shores.
Though Buzzard hoped she held enough strength for one last act.
He kneeled before her. “Last chance,” he said.
She huffed, mouth stained fresh from her kill, claws bared. The last thing he heard was the scream of children, the cry of a young lord, and the wheeze of a dying tiger.
Copyright © 2011 Jason S. Ridler
Read Comments on this Story in the BCS Forums
Jason S. Ridler has published over thirty short stories in such magazines and anthologies as Brain Harvest, Not One of Us, Big Pulp, Crossed Genres, Tesseracts Thirteen, and more. His non-fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Dark Scribe, and The Internet Review of Science Fiction. A former punk-rock musician and cemetery groundskeeper, Mr. Ridler holds a Ph.D. in War Studies from the Royal Military College of Canada. Visit him at his writing blog, Ridlerville, http://jsridler.livejournal.com, on Facebook, and on Twitter at http://twitter.com/JayRidler.
Read more Beneath Ceaseless Skies
COVER ART
“Fly High,” by Tina Marie Lane
Tina Marie Lane is a Environment Designer and 3D Artist with eleven years of professional experience in designing architecture and retail environments. Her freelance work delves into these areas as well as fantasy environments for games and literature. Recently her work has appeared in 3D Artist Magazine and can also be found at her website www.toyrocket3d.com. She fashions her worlds, both real and imagined, from Dallas, Texas.
Beneath Ceaseless Skies
ISSN: 1946-1046
Published by Firkin Press,
a 501(c)3 Non-Profit Literary Organization
Copyright © 2011 Firkin Press
This file is distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 3.0 U.S. license. You may copy and share the file so long as you retain the attribution to the authors, but you may not sell it and you may not alter it or partition it or transcribe it.
Beneath Ceaseless Skies #68 Page 3
