Swords & Dark Magic

by Jonathan Strahan; Lou Anders

  “But I killed the poor, sorry wretch,” Malmury mumbled, shivering and pulling the bearskin tighter about her. “Have you lot gone and found another?”

  “Truthfully,” Dóta replied, “I do not know what fresh devilry this is, only that we can’t stay here. There is fire, and a roar like naval cannonade.”

  “I was sleeping,” Malmury said petulantly. “I was dreaming of—”

  The barmaid slapped her again, harder, and this time Malmury seized her wrist and glared blearily back at Dóta. “I told you not to do that.”

  “Aye, and I told you to get up off your fat ass and get moving.” There was another explosion then, nearer than any of the others, and both women felt the floorboards shift and tilt below them. Malmury nodded, some dim comprehension wriggling its way through the brandy and wine.

  “My horse is in the stable,” she said. “I cannot leave without my horse. She was given me by my father.”

  Dóta shook her head, straining to help Malmury to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s too late. The stables are all ablaze.” Then neither of them said anything more, and the barmaid led the stranger down the swaying stairs and through the tavern and out into the burning village.

  From a rocky crag high above Invergó, the sea troll’s daughter watched as the town burned. Even at this distance and altitude, the earth shuddered with the force of each successive detonation. Loose stones were shaken free of the talus and rolled away down the steep slope. The sky was sooty with smoke, and beneath the pall, everything glowed from the hellish light of the flames.

  And, too, she watched the progress of those who’d managed to escape the fire. Most fled westward, across the mudflats, but some had filled the hulls of doggers and dories and ventured out into the bay. She’d seen one of the little boats lurch to starboard and capsize, and was surprised at how many of those it spilled into the icy cove reached the other shore. But of all these refugees, only two had headed south, into the hills, choosing the treacherous pass that led up towards the glacier and the basalt mountains that flanked it. The daughter of the sea troll watched their progress with an especial fascination. One of them appeared to be unconscious and was slung across the back of a mule, and the other, a woman with hair the color of the sun, held tight to the mule’s reins and urged it forward. With every new explosion, the animal bucked and brayed and struggled against her; once or twice, they almost went over the edge, all three of them. By the time they gained the wide ledge where Saehildr crouched, the sun was setting and nothing much remained of Invergó, nothing that hadn’t been touched by the devouring fire.

  The sun-haired woman lashed the reins securely to a boulder, then sat down in the rubble. She was trembling, and it was clear she’d not had time to dress with an eye towards the cold breath of the mountains. There was a heavy belt cinched about her waist, and from it hung a sheathed dagger. The sea troll’s daughter noted the blade, then turned her attention to the mule and its burden. She could see now that the person slung over the animal’s back was also a woman, unconscious and partially covered with a moth-eaten bearskin. Her long black hair hung down almost to the muddy ground.

  Invisible from her hiding place in the scree, Saehildr asked, “Is she dead, your companion?”

  Without raising her head, the sun-haired woman replied, “Now, why would I have bothered to drag a dead woman all the way up here?”

  “Perhaps she is dear to you,” the daughter of the sea troll replied. “It may be you did not wish to see her corpse go to ash with the others.”

  “Well, she’s not a corpse,” the woman said. “Not yet, anyway.” And as if to corroborate the claim, the body draped across the mule farted loudly and then muttered a few unintelligible words.

  “Your sister?” the daughter of the sea troll asked, and when the sun-haired woman told her no, Saehildr said, “She seems far too young to be your mother.”

  “She’s not my mother. She’s…a friend. More than that, she’s a hero.”

  The sea troll’s daughter licked at her lips, then glanced back to the inferno by the bay. “A hero,” she said, almost too softly to be heard.

  “That’s the way it started,” the sun-haired woman said, her teeth chattering so badly she was having trouble speaking. “She came here from a kingdom beyond the mountains, and, single-handedly, she slew the fiend that haunted the bay. But—”

  “Then the fire came,” Saehildr said, and, with that, she stood, revealing herself to the woman. “My father’s fire, the wrath of the Old Ones, unleashed by the blade there on your hip.”

  The woman stared at the sea troll’s daughter, her eyes filling with wonder and fear and confusion, with panic. Her mouth opened, as though she meant to say something or to scream, but she uttered not a sound. Her hand drifted towards the dagger’s hilt.

  “That, my lady, would be a very poor idea,” Saehildr said calmly. Taller by a head than even the tallest of tall men, she stood looking down at the shivering woman, and her skin glinted oddly in the half-light. “Why do you think I mean you harm?”

  “You,” the woman stammered. “You’re the troll’s whelp. I have heard the tales. The old witch is your mother.”

  Saehildr made an ugly, derisive noise that was partly a laugh. “Is that how they tell it these days, that Gunna is my mother?”

  The sun-haired woman only nodded once and stared at the rocks.

  “My mother is dead,” the troll’s daughter said, moving nearer, causing the mule to bray and tug at its reins. “And now, it seems, my father has joined her.”

  “I cannot let you harm her,” the woman said, risking a quick sidewise glance at Saehildr. The daughter of the sea troll laughed again, and dipped her head, almost seeming to bow. The distant firelight reflected off the small, curved horns on either side of her head, hardly more than nubs and mostly hidden by her thick hair, and shone off the scales dappling her cheekbones and brow, as well.

  “What you mean to say, is that you would have to try to prevent me from harming her.”

  “Yes,” the sun-haired woman replied, and now she glanced nervously towards the mule and her unconscious companion.

  “If, of course, I intended her harm.”

  “Are you saying that you don’t?” the woman asked. “That you do not desire vengeance for your father’s death?”

  Saehildr licked her lips again, then stepped past the seated woman to stand above the mule. The animal rolled its eyes, neighed horribly, and kicked at the air, almost dislodging its load. But then the sea troll’s daughter gently laid a hand on its rump, and immediately the beast grew calm and silent once more. Saehildr leaned forwards and grasped the unconscious woman’s chin, lifting it, wishing to know the face of the one who’d defeated the brute who’d raped her mother and made of his daughter so shunned and misshapen a thing.

  “This one is drunk,” Saehildr said, sniffing the air.

  “Very much so,” the sun-haired woman replied.

  “A drunkard slew the troll?”

  “She was sober that day. I think.”

  Saehildr snorted and said, “Know that there was no bond but blood between my father and me. Hence, what need have I to seek vengeance upon his executioner? Though, I will confess, I’d hoped she might bring me some measure of sport. But even that seems unlikely in her current state.” She released the sleeping woman’s jaw, letting it bump roughly against the mule’s ribs, and stood upright again. “No, I think you need not fear for your lover’s life. Not this day. Besides, wouldn’t the utter destruction of your village count as a more appropriate reprisal?”

  The sun-haired woman blinked, and said, “Why do you say that, that she’s my lover?”

  “Liquor is not the only stink on her,” answered the sea troll’s daughter. “Now, deny the truth of this, my lady, and I may yet grow angry.”

  The woman from doomed Invergó didn’t reply, but only sighed and continued staring into the gravel at her feet.

  “This one is practically naked,” Saehild
r said. “And you’re not much better. You’ll freeze, the both of you, before morning.”

  “There was no time to find proper clothes,” the woman protested, and the wind shifted then, bringing with it the cloying reek of the burning village.

  “Not very much farther along this path, you’ll come to a small cave,” the sea troll’s daughter said. “I will find you there, tonight, and bring what furs and provisions I can spare. Enough, perhaps, that you may yet have some slim chance of making your way through the mountains.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dóta said, exhausted and near tears, and when the troll’s daughter made no response, the barmaid discovered that she and the mule and Malmury were alone on the mountain ledge. She’d not heard the demon take its leave, so maybe the stories were true, and it could become a fog and float away whenever it so pleased. Dóta sat a moment longer, watching the raging fire spread out far below them. And then she got to her feet, took up the mule’s reins, and began searching for the shelter that the troll’s daughter had promised her she would discover. She did not spare a thought for the people of Invergó, not for her lost family, and not even for the kindly old man who’d owned the Cod’s Demise and had taken her in off the streets when she was hardly more than a child. They were the past, and the past would keep neither her nor Malmury alive.

  Twice, she lost her way among the boulders, and by the time Dóta stumbled upon the cave, a heavy snow had begun to fall, large wet flakes spiraling down from the darkness. But it was warm inside, out of the howling wind. And, what’s more, she found bundles of wolf and bear pelts, seal skins, and mammoth hide, some sewn together into sturdy garments. And there was salted meat, a few potatoes, and a freshly killed rabbit spitted and roasting above a small cooking fire. She would never again set eyes on the sea troll’s daughter, but in the long days ahead, as Dóta and the stranger named Malmury made their way through blizzards and across fields of ice, she would often sense someone nearby, watching over them. Or only watching.

  * * *

  BILL WILLINGHAM was born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. He got his start as staff artist for TSR, Inc., providing illustrations for a number of its role-playing games, among them Advanced Dungeons & Dragons and Gamma World. In the 1980s, he gained attention for his comic book series Elementals (published by Comico), and contributed as an illustrator to such titles as DC’s Green Lantern. Willingham created the popular DC Vertigo comic book Fables in 2002, about characters from folklore residing in contemporary Manhattan. To date, Fables is the recipient of fourteen coveted Eisner Awards. His Jack of Fables, created with Matthew Sturges, was chosen by Time magazine as number five in their Top Ten Graphic Novels of 2007. His first Fables prose novel, Peter and Max, was released in 2009, the same year that his comic book Fables: War and Pieces was nominated for the first Hugo Award for Best Graphic Story. One of the most popular comics writers of our time, he currently lives in the woods in Minnesota.

  * * *

  THIEVES OF DARING

  Bill Willingham

  Septavian is 24 or 25 by this time, still adventuring in the company of the Brothers Frogbarding. They work as mercenaries for the most part, in the much-fragmented northern kingdoms, traveling south on occasion to spend their pay and thieve in the large and wealthy port cities. Though the city is not specifically named in the following tale, it is widely assumed to be Vess, which is identified in other stories as a center for the practice of dark arts and the location of the wizard Ulmore’s winter palace.

  From A Probable Outline of Septavian’s Life and Adventures

  by Walter Marsh

  Jonar Frogbarding, the giant red-bearded northlander was dead, headless, on the upper landing, a victim of one of Ulmore’s roving guards, his infamous Golems Decapitant. His fair-haired brother Tywar was bleeding out at my feet on the main floor. Nothing I could do would help him. Too many deep wounds, each one a killing stroke. I watched the quickly expanding red lake spread out from the disordered pieces of him to luridly paint the floor’s elaborate central mosaic, hand-cut marble tiles of every conceivable color, depicting an imaginary monster attacking a ship at sea. Maybe not imaginary, I corrected myself, considering the other impossible things we’d encountered today. The blade that had dispatched Tywar lay on the floor beside him, apparently finally drained of whatever animating force had lent some manner of autonomous life to it.

  I hadn’t seen Roe Zelazar, the black-haired, black-eyed Lemurian, since the four of us had breached the estate’s outer wall, more than an hour ago. Four thieves of daring, out on a wine-fueled lark, to make ourselves famous, at least among a select underworld set, by looting the vacant winter palace of Ulmore, the legendary Last Atlantean Sorcerer. As soon as we’d reached the first inner courtyard, Roe had whispered something frantic and unintelligible before running off in his own direction, leaving me with the brothers.

  “I think he heard something,” Jonar had whispered. “Went to investigate.”

  “I’m not inclined to stay here in the open, waiting for him,” I’d said.

  “Nor I,” Tywar said.

  So the three of us continued the raid without him, making our way past the outbuildings, over the lawn, sewn with spike-bottomed mantraps, among other snares and distractions, and to the main building, a fortress disguised as a palace. Once inside, we’d run into the real defenses, constructs of darkest sorcery, that worried and harried at us, room by room, step by step, steadily wearing us down, making us pay for every foot gained, until I had to watch the brothers, my friends and companions for the past three years, cut into lifeless bone and carcass.

  Now it seemed I was on my own.

  At this point, I’d forgotten any notion of robbery. I just wanted to find Roe and get free of this murder house. I didn’t really know the Lemurian. He was a companion of the moment, after a long night of drinking. Not a proven friend, like the brothers had been. But he’d set out on this foolhardy raid with us, and I’m not one to leave any companion behind, if I can help it.

  Retreating back to the upper landing, where we’d made our original entry, was out of the question. It had been cut off as an avenue of escape by the blade-armed golems that had arrived in force by now. They blocked both stairways. They were fast, untiring, and near impossible to harm. One of them had been enough to overmatch Jonar. Though I was faster than the northlander, and a considerably smaller target, I had no illusions that I’d be able to make it past the three dozen or more that were up there now. At least they seemed content to remain on the upper landing. Assigned territories, perhaps?

  There were six doorways attached to the large room I was in, plus a winding stairway leading down into the dark. Low, rumbling growls and coughs issued up from that, as if some great unearthly creature lurked below.

  Staying where I was for any length of time seemed a bad idea. The room was filled with metal statues depicting mighty armored warriors. All but one of them held swords, spears, axes, or other weapons. The sword missing from the remaining statue was the one that had come to life long enough to butcher Tywar. I didn’t trust the other weapons to remain inanimate.

  So which door do I try? This room seemed centrally located within the sprawling building. One door was as likely as any other to lead outside, or to a dead end.

  While I was still considering my options, looking for any clue that might favor one possible exit over another, one of the doors opened and Roe Zelazar walked through it. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was.

  “You’re free to go, Septavian,” he said. “I’ve no wish to harm you, or cause you any further distress. It was those two ruffians I was after.” His gesture took in most of the room, including the two corpses. His rough brown tunic and leggings of the night before were gone, replaced by black-and-grey robes of fine linen. He’d obviously found time to bathe and perfume himself, too, while we were being hunted and cut down.

  “You’re the Wizard Ulmore?” I said.

  “No, of course not. I’m merely one of hi
s students. True, I’m one of his more accomplished students, whose duties happen to include looking after his winter residence when he’s absent.” Roe approached to just outside of a common sword range. A mistake on his part—possibly.

  “And yet I seem to recall it was your idea to rob this place,” I said. We were already pretty deep in our cups, and bragging rather boisterously about our intent to do some bold act of mischief, when the Lemurian had joined us.

  “Since you were clearly intent on thievery, I merely suggested the target. This is my adopted home, after all, and I have a strong sense of civic duty.”

  “Luring unwary people into this death trap?”

  “Identifying the brutes and vermin that infiltrate our community and disposing of them, before they can cause real harm.”

  “A good wizard? A servant to his town and country?” I didn’t quite scoff at the notion—not quite.

  “Exactly so. Sorcery is the foundation on which civilization is built. We devise comforts and luxuries not otherwise available through more ordinary means. Better food. Longer life. Not everyone is content to scratch out a meager existence in your wild lands, prey to anyone stronger in arm, or more savage in will. The elegant art is the final achievement of a life spent in exacting education and study. Only men of refinement and letters succeed. Compare that to the brutish existence of these northlanders and ask yourself, which life is better?”

  “Not all of us are without letters,” I said.

  “One of the reasons I singled you out from these others for clemency. And there was a practical consideration as well. Unless Septavian is a more common name than I’m given to understand, then you must be Septavian of the Waterhouse. If that’s true, and judging by your appearance and odd weapons I believe it is, then I’ve no wish to incur the wrath of your secretive martial brotherhood. Your people have a nasty reputation of finding and killing those who kill your own, even those of us well practiced in the dark arts.”