Pale Wings
Anna lifted the horseshoe from the fire, laid it over the anvil and began hammering. The shoe had been close to the right fit to begin with, the best out of all the ones hanging for luck and for stock around the smithy. Holding up the glowing hoop, she glanced at Covrey’s new grey mare and nodded to herself. She had a good eye for these things. This shoe would be right.
Steam hissed from the bucket as she plunged the horseshoe in. Covrey’s mare looked at her accusingly.
“I know not everyone favours shoeing.” Anna took a hammer and nails from the workbench. “But your master does, and that means you’re getting this.”
The horse whinnied in alarm and bolted for the door.
“What the hell!” Anna dropped her hammer and ran after the horse, leather apron flapping against her legs.
She was halfway across the village square when she heard what had alarmed the mare. Not the threat of being shoed, but the drone of an approaching demon. It soared above the crenelations of the minister’s mansion, narrow body like an arrow in flight, stiff wings as pale as death.
Around the square, everyone was running for cover. Even the youngest children knew to hide when a demon came. Abandoning her chase, Anna turned and dashed back toward the smithy.
Dirt flew up behind her as the demon spat its bolts of death. Heart pounding, she leapt through the open front of the smithy and out of sight. The wards of her home hid her from the demon. It ceased its battle roar.
But instead of returning to the soft buzz of its flight, the demon let out a sputtering noise as it flew low over her roof. A moment later there was a crash on the common land.
Emerging cautiously from the smithy, Anna peered around the outside of her hut. The ground of the commons had been torn up, the wings and tail of the demon protruding from a mound of dirt at the far side. Most of the villagers’ pigs had scattered, though two lay dead, little more than red smears in the path of the demon’s fall.
Anna had heard that such things happened, but never seen them, and her curiosity was overwhelming. Many others were poking their heads out, looking to see what had happened. Only Anna crossed the commons, approaching the twisted white body with increasingly tentative steps.
As she got near, a hiss emerged from the hole the demon had torn in the ground. It wasn’t dead, just wounded. How badly though? Anna took a step closer.
Something glinted on the side of the demon. She peered at it. Was that a blinking red eye? Was that how demons saw so much, eyeballs attached to their bodies? They truly were abominations.
There was a sudden roar and a flash of light. A fierce wind hurled Anna from her feet. Pain stabbed through her leg.
Gripped by fear, she scrambled to her feet and dashed away across the commons. Looking back from the safety of her smithy, she saw that the demon was gone, only flames and blackened ruin in its place.
So it was true. God struck down any demon that touched the earth. She sank to her knees and prayed in gratitude for her salvation from the angry, hissing thing.
At last she looked down at her injured leg. A sliver of something protruded from her flesh, like a foot long nail. She pulled it out and wrapped the wound. Once she had rested she would go to Mother Golding for a poultice to help her heal. In the meantime she sat staring at the shard of metal. One side was bare steel, high quality beneath a smear of soot. The other side was white.
Part of the demon.
In horror she cast it into the fire, watched as it started to glow. Later, she would smelt it down and ask Mother Golding where best to bury it, to prevent the demon from haunting the village.
A whinny made her look up. Covrey stood in the entrance to the smithy, concern wrinkling his long forehead, the new grey mare beside him.
“You still alright to shoe her?” he asked. “I mean, I can come back later if…”
His words petered out.
The glow of the shard in the fire caught Anna’s eye again. How could a metal creature like that ever come to be? Was this how demons began, by hammering iron onto innocent beasts?
Lifting the horseshoe out of the bucket, Anna went to the wall. The trembling of her hand made the horseshoe rattle as she hung it with the rest
“Not everyone favours shoeing,” she said. “Your mare will be fine without.”
Shades of Loss
Strange, rusted shapes crunched beneath Mantaj’s feet as she approached the ruins, holy book clasped in her hand. When she was young, she and the other children had come here often, rummaging through the rubble in search of these ancient artefacts from before the dark time. This place of excitement was now one of terror, for her even more than for the other villagers. But they were not priests, and so the exorcism fell to her.
With trembling steps she walked through the high doorway, the flames of her torch making shadows dance around the hall within. A fresh pile of rubble lay ahead of her, a dark stain at its edge. The stain of her mother’s blood.
As she approached the rubble, a ghostly figure appeared in the air further down the hall. Terrible, wrenching loss at the sight of her mother’s face was replaced by fear for her life. This was the unnatural thing that had sent others running, a spirit from the beyond. It was said that the walking dead could devour your soul, and the fear of the beyond that had led Mantaj to become a priest now made her feet falter.
“It’s all so beautiful.” The ghost smiled, then looked up in alarm. Some invisible force struck it to the ground, head caved in just as her mother’s had been. A moment later it was upright again. “It’s all so beautiful.”
As she watched her mother die over and over, Mantaj’s fear was replaced by guilt. She had been fearing for herself, not mourning her mother’s loss. The feelings twisted up together, freezing her in place.
“I shall make shadows out of loss,” she said, reciting her favourite scripture for reassurance. “Angels shall become demons at my hand, and demons shall become angels.”
She walked with trembling steps across the hall, forcing herself not to flee as the invisible rubble crushed her mother and the roof creaked overhead. Her duty was to keep the village safe, and to help her mother move on.
A hiss came from the side of the hall, a feral cat prowling through the ruins. For a moment it seemed to glow, and the ghostly image was broken by the animal’s silhouette. Behind the cat, something glowed.
She turned and walked toward that point of light. One foot sank into a hole in the floor. Yelping, she fell to the ground.
As she pulled herself back to her feet, her mother’s voice was replaced by an echo of that yelp.
Mantaj looked back. The ghost no longer took her mother’s form. Now it looked like Mantaj herself, caught over and over in the act of tripping at that hole, crying out again and again in alarm.
She trembled with fear. If that was her ghost, then what had happened to her body? Had she fallen and cracked her head open? Was she now just a remnant waiting to pass on, her mortal flesh lying dead on the ground? She forced herself to look down, to face the terrible reality of her fate.
There was no body. Only the hole, the ground, and Mantaj standing on it.
Relief lifted her spirits, and she walked more confidently toward the glowing light.
“Demons shall become angels,” she said, holding the book out in front of her like a talisman. No-one trained village priests to perform exorcisms, but she knew that holy words could drive out unholy spirits. “Demons shall become angels.”
“Demons shall become angels.” The ghost echoed her voice, and as she glanced back she saw that it too walked confidently forward, though without moving from its spot.
Approaching the wall, she saw that the light was coming from an ancient device embedded in the base of the wall. It was dirty and rusted, and a lump of rock had recently fallen against it, pressing on two protrusions that glowed like fine gemstones, one blue and one red. Was it some sort of trap, confining the spirits that haunted this place? A blue gem to display benevole
nt spirits and a red one to trap demons, as she had heard of in legends?
She lifted away the rock at its base. Both gems ceased their glowing, and the light went out. Behind her, the ghost fell silent.
Mantaj was surprised to feel a surge of sadness. She had lost so much with her mother’s death, and the transformation of that spirit from an image of death to a message of scripture had given her hope. For a moment she had believed that death was not the end, not for good things.
She stroked the blue gemstone, and the lighted flashed again. Leaning the rock against the gem, she saw it resume its soft glow and heard her own voice coming from behind her.
“Demons shall become angels,” the ghost said again.
“Thank you.” Mantaj bowed her head to the spirit trap, and turned to leave.
“Demons shall become angels.” The voice followed her out through the hall. “Demons shall become angels.”
Black Cat
Titus raced down the narrow streets, sand flying from his sandals. Behind him, a dozen voices yelled in angry Egyptian, footfalls pounding after his own.
This was one more for the list of things not to do on leave. Don’t upset the local gods. Don’t stray too far from the other legionaries. And now, don’t try to cheat Egyptians at dice.
He ducked around a corner, dived through an open doorway and shut the door behind him. Hopefully they’d run on past.
The basket hanging from his hand shook, a dozen dormice quivering in terror. They’d looked so plump and tasty, it had been impossible not to push his luck. After a decade in the legion, you got a good meal when you could.
Feet ran toward the door. Wiping the sweat from his palm, Titus gripped his dagger and got ready to fight.
The footsteps slowed as they passed the door, angry shouts replaced by some sort of debate.
A purr made Titus look down. At his feet sat a black cat.
It purred louder, and looked meaningfully from Titus to the basket of mice.
“Ssh.” Titus waved a hand at the cat.
Unimpressed, it meowed loudly.
The receding footsteps hesitated, then headed back toward the door.
Silently cursing the local houses, their thin walls and their cat-tolerating household gods, Titus glanced around the room. There was nowhere to hide, but two doors leading out. Which way to go?
The cat pawed at the basket, looked up at Titus, and then scampered out the left hand door.
“Hope you know your way around.” Titus was no coward, but he’d always been more of a follower than a leader. When in doubt, it was usually best to go with someone smarter than him.
He hurried after the cat.
They ran through the house, past a pair of bemused looking children, and out into an alleyway. The angry voices followed as the cat led him down the twisting back streets, through a bustling market, and up the steps of a temple. A curtain closed behind them, and Titus looked around for a safe place to hide.
Instead he saw cats. Statues of cats. Pictures of cats. Live cats hanging from the furniture, the lamp stands and even the pair of priestesses stood by the altar.
Every pair of feline eyes looked his way. As the dormice shook with panic, every voice in the room was raised in a meow, a chorus so loud it would be heard streets away.
It was a simple shrine. A single room with a single door and no windows. Shouts approached the temple steps, blocking the only way out.
Titus drew his knife. Wanting his other hand free, he dumped the basket on the altar. The black cat looked up at him again.
“Go on then.” Reluctantly, he unlatched the basket lid. “They’re no use to me now.”
Fat felines descended on the mice, snapping with teeth and slashing with claws. They left one untouched, quivering at the foot of a cat-headed statue.
The temple curtain was flung aside and a dozen men stormed in, pointing, shouting and waving knives at Titus.
A hundred furred faces turned their way, and the temple echoed with angry hissing.
The men hesitated, staring from the cats to Titus and then back again. The man who had owned the dormice stared at the altar and shouted. As the hissing rose his companions grabbed his arms and dragged him out the door.
Titus watched them go, then turned with a sigh to see his dormouse dinner disappear in a frenzy of teeth and claws.
As his stomach rumbled, the black cat turned back and deposited a tiny rodent tail at his feet.
“Thanks for sharing.” Titus stooped and stroked the cat. Just to be on the safe side, he mumbled a prayer.
Behind the altar, a cat-headed statue purred.
Lies Like Honey
The stones were cold and hard beneath Marcus’s knees. Pulling a purse from his toga, he tipped the contents into a bowl at the feet of the statue. Gold coins reflected flickering candle light across the carved body of the goddess.
“Hear me, oh mighty Bellona.” Marcus did his best to mimic the humility he had seen in others. There was little reason for a senator to be truly humble. “I bring you this offering, and more to come. Please grant me your power as a leader and orator, that I may humiliate Tullius on the senate floor tomorrow, and ensure my control of the port taxes.”
There seemed little point in lying about his purpose to either a god or a statue. Any god of Rome must know what business preoccupied the city’s senate, and no statue would hear or care.
“I can grant what you ask.” The voice was rich, booming and so unexpected that it made Marcus jump. He had seen the gods grant power, but never before had one deemed fit to speak to him.
None of the temple’s attendants were looking his way. Only he had heard the voice.
“Thank you, oh glory.” He smiled and bowed low. “I will bring you more offerings once I have-”
“I will not grant this power for your petty cause.” Bellona’s voice cut through his thoughts like a sword blade. “But I have need of a voice in the senate. Turn your efforts to stoking war with Carthage, and I will make you a mighty orator, a leader among men.”
Blank faced, Marcus considered his options. He had no desire for war, whether as a leader of a follower. It was a waste of talent and time. But if he was careful, he could get what he wanted from this.
“Or course, oh great one.” He bowed more deeply. “Grant me your power, and I will prove your greatness on the senate floor.”
“Worm!” The voice was a hammer pounding in his brain. He pressed his head against the cold stones, hoping to find some relief from the agony. “You seek to trick me with your slippery words! Implying obedience to my will, while committing to no path but your own. You think I am a fool?”
“That is not what I meant.” Even with his brain feeling like it might spill out through his ears, Marcus could still see a way forward. “I will use your power to make the case for war.”
“Very well.” The goddess’s voice become gentle, washing away the pain. “My power is yours.”
A taste like warm honey flowed across Marcus’s tongue and down his throat. Poetic turns of phrase sprang unbidden into his mind. There was a rumbling richness to his voice as he spoke.
“Thank you, oh great one.” Even he found his new tone charming. “I will do as you ask.”
Rising and turning to leave the temple, he finally allowed himself a sly grin. It was not the first time he had lied for what he wanted. By the time Bellona knew, his work would be done, his argument won with her power. After that, he would make do with attending on the other gods. It would be worth it for the riches at stake.
“Marcus.” Her voice caught him as he reached the doorway. “I have other servants. It will not go well for you if you betray me.”
A temple attendant looked his way as he stood blinking at the sunlit street. The man’s hand lay on the knife in his belt. His eyes gleamed like an iron blade.
Marcus hesitated, contemplating the possibilities ahead of him. Lead a war he didn’t want, or spend months looking over his shoulder for angry priests. Maybe n
ext time he wouldn’t try lying to a god.
Or maybe he would just do it better.
The God of This Hillside
“For the last time, put that thing away.” Carausius glared at the labourer in the grey tunic, the one who kept trying to place offerings next to the syphon pipes. “If the senate thought we needed gods to carry our water then they would have sent a priest, not an engineering team.”
“But the god of this hillside-” the man began.
“A pox on the god of this hillside,” Carausius said. “We have laid the pipes perfectly, there is no need for magic.”
He laid a hand on one of the lead tubes. The siphon ran down one hillside, across the valley, and back up the other side, from a rural collection tank to a water-tower on the edge of Rome. Even by his standards it was excellent work.
“Open the gates,” he called up the hill.
“I already did,” came the reply from near the collection tank.
Frowning, Carausius leaned down and pressed his ear against the pipe. There was no sound, nor the slightest vibration. No water flowed.
He stomped up the hillside, followed by the labourer. At the top stood his assistant Itimerius, his face crumpled with concern.
“Look.” Itimerius pointed to the gate leading from the tank into the pipe. It was open, but no water flowed through. A foot-wide bubble blocked the way, and in the middle of it stood the tiny figure of a water sprite, hair hanging green around her scaly shoulders.
The tank wasn’t full yet, but the water reached Carausius’s knees as he dropped down inside, a measuring stick in one hand.
“Get out.” He stabbed at the sprite with the stick, but she darted giggling out of the way. The air bubble remained. Taking a deep breath, Carausius forced himself to smile at the tiny creature. “What would you like in return for letting the water flow?”
“Not me.” The sprite giggled again, the sound grating at Carausius’s nerves. “Hill god wants offering. Hill god friend.”
A Mosaic of Stars: Short Stories From Other Worlds Page 2
