Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXIII

by Waters, Elisabeth

  Fenris's great jaws closed around an ogre and devoured him whole. As Fenris swung his head to tear apart an ogre, Asdis leaned opposite, cleaving the head off another.

  Salty ogre blood sprayed the air.

  Asdis and Fenris fought in rhythm, attacking from side to side. While he ate his fill of the sea monsters, she swung the golden axe, cutting head from neck, limb from torso. Those her blow didn't kill outright, the wolves fell upon and finished.

  By the end of the battle, Asdis felt as if she'd chopped enough wood to last the whole village a long winter. And Fenris's stomach bulged so much it nearly dragged the ground.

  Exhausted, she slid off Fenris and sat on her knees. Blood and mud soaked her skirt. She lacked even the strength to see if Storr or Onund had survived.

  Fenris swung his head towards her, his twin-sun eyes burning. "I thank you for my freedom." He bit her arm. "Remember our bargain."

  Asdis grabbed the wound which oozed surprisingly little blood given how her heart pounded. Yet Fenris hadn't bitten deeply, only enough to leave a scar. A reminder.

  "I would not have forgotten," she said.

  "The bite is my gift," Fenris said. "Lift your head and howl."

  Suspicious and curious both, Asdis howled. The wolves howled in return. Laughing, she howled louder. Her bloodlust rose. She could see better in the dark. She felt stronger and... furry. As she talked, her words were mangled. "What have you done?"

  "Now you may speak with my children. Whenever you wish, you may run with them, for their spirit lives in you, as does my child." Fenris bound off, vanishing in the first shadow, his children loping after him.

  As she thought on his words, her heartbeat slowed and she felt herself return to normal. She rubbed her stomach. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she felt the stirring of a wolf-god 'cub' inside her.

  Vorbrynja's whisper rode the wind. "The first of many great shape-shifting warriors."

  Storr approached, hauling a badly wounded Onund. From the gash in Onund's thigh, he would lose the leg.

  Dreng dropped to a knee. "Indeed you are the Wolf Maiden, guardian of Wolf's Head."

  A cheer rose up, weak in sound, but strong in heart.

  "Though you are now jarl, I demand a vow that every villager alive and those not yet born shall never hunt another wolf."

  * * * *

  Asdis hung her golden axe on the longhouse wall above her father's helmet.

  Months had passed along with many storms and the ogres hadn't returned. Their bone ships had been dismantled and the remains given proper rites.

  Though Asdis sat near the corner nightly, cradling her son with yellow eyes, never again did Forseti return. But sometimes she heard Fenris howl. And some nights, she ran with him.

  Black Magic

  by Resa Nelson

  This story starts with two classic plot devices: a girl disguising herself as a boy, and a youngster running away to sea. (Is it just a coincidence that the author shares a last name with one of England's greatest naval heroes?) Everyday life at sea is eventful—and dangerous—enough without additional complications. In a story, however, you want complications, and this story certainly has them.

  Resa Nelson is the author of The Dragonslayer's Sword, a novel about a young female blacksmith who makes swords for dragonslayers, despite her distaste for violence. Nelson is a Clarion graduate and has sold 20 stories to magazines and anthologies. Visit her website at http://resanelson.com.

  #

  The 22-year-old woman who called herself George Hall chased the last sheep on the poop deck. George was steady on her feet, despite the ship's pitch. Her recent meal of dry biscuit, pork boiled in salt water, and vinegar-like wine had left a sour taste in her mouth, but the meal held firmly in her belly. She didn't mind chasing sheep or choppy waves. She was just glad to be onboard the Crown instead of running a London household.

  Last year she'd run away from her father's posh home and the pressure to marry. At that time, she'd already refused six proposals, and her father's patience had grown short. She was expected to bear a huge brood of children and raise them in a well appointed and supervised house, but the thought of such an orderly and predictable future turned her stomach. One day, she'd dressed in the shirt, breeches, and jacket of a seaman (as well as a long strip of muslin to wrap and flatten her chest), slipped away, and never looked back.

  She believed she'd been right to run away from her father, but she often missed him, nonetheless.

  George was surprised that everyone she met assumed she was a boy. Maybe none of them expected to see a woman dressed this way. She'd been hired to sail on the Crown, a merchant ship known as an "Indiaman" of the United East India companies. The Crown was a frigate carrying a 500-ton load, 156 men, and a constant fear of pirates, reflected by the fact it was armed with 56 guns. It also bore a mermaid figurehead, believed to house the soul of the ship.

  George's heels clattered against the ship's floorboards as she cornered the sheep, then pounced on it. The animal bleated as if being murdered.

  "None of that, Sally," George said to the sheep. As the surgeon's assistant, George's job was to help the surgeon when needed and act as barber every eighth day to the crew. Otherwise, she did whatever needed to be done.

  Digging her fingers deep into its wool, George dragged Sally the sheep back to her tether. After tying the animal back up, George rubbed her hands together. One of the few things she missed about London was the perfumed oils she'd used to keep her skin soft and supple. The oil that rubbed off Sally's wool was a poor and smelly substitute, but it was better than nothing for her rough, red hands.

  "George!"

  She spun around to see Mr. Mungo, the first mate, eyeballing her. "Yes, Sir?"

  Sporting a stubble-haired face and blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, the corners of Mr. Mungo's mouth curved up in a perpetual smirk. His eyes pierced her soul every time he looked at her. But the only time he'd ever truly frightened her was during her first week on board. It happened when he'd sent for her to report to his cabin late one night. She'd entered to find the bosun's mate naked and snoring in Mr. Mungo's bed. George had averted her eyes. Mr. Mungo had stood quietly, measuring her reaction. Finally, he'd said, "I know your secret. I know who your father is and how much he'd likely pay to get you back home, safe and sound. I reckon he'd give a fortune just to find out you're still alive." He'd paused long enough to let George absorb what he was saying, then added, "Obviously, you'd rather be here than home, so I expect no less of you than any man on the Crown." Mr. Mungo had laughed and nodded toward the sleeping boatswain. "Any man excepting him, of course."

  Stunned, George had managed to say, "How do you know—"

  Instead of answering, Mr. Mungo had smacked her bottom playfully, sending her away with a smirk.

  Since that night, George had considered Mr. Mungo a secret friend, even though she never dared tell him so. Instead of telling him about her gratitude, she worked her fingers to the bone to show it.

  Now, she stood at attention, ready to obey any command.

  "Listen close, Bo Peep," Mr. Mungo said. "There's washing and cooking and mending to be done."

  George's heart sank. Back in London, those were tasks she'd set the servants on doing. "Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir."

  Just remember, she told herself, if you were in London right now, there'd be no adventure.

  She'd longed for adventure since childhood. Her father was a famous London architect and her mother a distant memory. The house George had grown up in was a wonder. In the heart of London, it was a narrow townhouse with five stories. The main and lower floors were a maze of narrow hallways and tiny rooms, while the upper floors had larger and more conventional rooms. Still, the house was like a rolltop desk, full of secrets. Even better, her father loved all the cultures of the world and was a collector of antiquities, which were stuffed in every nook and cranny.

  He'd let George play with most of them when she was a child, and she'd spent hours stal
king around the enormous sarcophagus that dominated a tiny room on the main floor, which opened up to several hidden courtyards. She'd pretended to be an Egyptian princess captured by ancient Greeks, whose vases lined the niches above the doorway to the next room. Sometimes she climbed the obelisk in one of the courtyards, believing she could catch the seductive scent of the open sea. George didn't know why the sea called to her. For as long as she could remember, her favorite place was the bathtub, where she'd spend hours pretending she was lounging in the lagoons of Bora Bora or drifting with the tides kissing Sicily.

  George had soon learned her romantic notions of sailing the seas were just a fantasy. The work was hard, and the men were crude and stank horribly. Most were treated as little more than property and had to abide to the strict discipline of the Ship's Articles. One day, Erich Sixtus had called Jorgen Jacobsen a Swedish blockhead, and the two pummeled each other until Mr. Mungo stopped them. According to the Ship's Articles, Sixtus was docked a month's wages and given 150 lashes with the cat-o-nine-tail.

  That had been a rude awakening, but George had adjusted. This was the second leg of her first journey on the Crown between England and India. Her ports of call ranged from Lisbon to Capetown to Ethiopia to Bombay to Calcutta. Once in port, she helped load and unload the most exotic and famous goods of trade in all the world: frankincense, salt-peter, indigo, sugar, pepper, and other spices from India. Then there was ivory and gold from the Dark Continent. And Europe's favorite shipment of all: coffee beans from Persia.

  Even on days when George had nothing more exciting to do than clean and sew, her life was still far more exciting than anything she'd ever dreamed it could be.

  As she turned, she thought she saw something flash across the vast Atlantic Ocean. She'd gained a reputation for having sharp eyesight. She curled her fingers around the railing, leaning over as if the few inches could give her a closer look.

  "George!" Mr. Mungo stomped toward her. "Get to work!"

  She pointed toward the horizon. "There's something out there, Mr. Mungo. What if it's pirates?"

  "Tell the gunner and take your post," Mr. Mungo said. "We're not far from New Calabar. I'll let the Captain know this may be a good time to change course and replenish supplies."

  George nodded, casting one last glance toward the horizon.

  * * * *

  Sailing toward New Calabar, they came across another ship, dead in the water. It was a small ship with three masts. There were no signs of movement, no sound of human voices on the wind.

  "I know that ship," Captain Garcia said. He wore a black dress coat and a silk embroidered vest. His white silk stockings and knee breeches were fastened together with silver buckles. "I served on it once."

  "The sails," George said softly as she sidled next to Mr. Mungo. "They're pale green." She gasped. "And look—those are stacks made of sailcloth!" As green as the sails, the three columns standing on the other ship's deck served to bring fresh air to the cargo hold at the bottom of the ship.

  Worried, George peeked at the captain, who stood on the other side of Mr. Mungo. She'd heard tales that Captain Garcia had been a pirate himself in his young and rowdy days. Everyone knew he might as well have eyes in the back of his head, because he always knew exactly what cargo he had on board and where it was at any given moment. He brooked excuses from no one, and his reputation as a man who protected his shipment was well earned.

  Mr. Mungo snorted. "That ship's been vanished for 10 years now. Everyone says, if there's an end to the Earth, that ship fell over it a long time ago." He spat overboard. "Looks like everyone guessed wrong."

  Captain Garcia's eyes glazed over like a boy staring through the window of a candy store.

  Mr. Mungo waved one hand across the captain's face. "Don't be tempted! It's a ghost ship!"

  "Precisely." Captain Garcia grinned, pushing Mr. Mungo's waving hand aside. "Whatever crew sets foot on board first has right to claim it and its shipment."

  As the ship drifted closer, George saw the name painted on its side: it was the Black Magic, all right. She could also make out its figurehead, a 15-foot tall genii.

  Strange, George thought. She'd been startled by the nudity of the Crown's mermaid figurehead at first, but she soon learned that most ships had figureheads of naked women. She also learned that women were bad luck on ship—unless they bared their breasts, which would appease the gods of the sea, especially during storms.

  But the Black Magic's figurehead had a dark face framed by a red turban. He was a bare-chested man wearing billowy red pants. His arms were crossed, as if ready to nod his head and grant any wish.

  A chill ran down the back of George's throat. What was it about the genii that seemed so familiar to her? Suddenly, she wished she were back in London, curled up in front of the fireplace with a cup of tea.

  "Mr. Mungo," George whispered. "Please tell the captain we should continue to New Calabar."

  But Mr. Mungo didn't hear her.

  * * * *

  Three small boats rowed from the Crown to the Black Magic. As they drew close, George noticed moss had grown on the ghost ship's masts and sails. That's why they'd looked green from a distance.

  The Black Magic's upper deck ran the length of the ship, and its gun deck had five four-pound cannons on each side. Three hatches led from the gun deck down to the 'tween deck and the seamen's quarters. The ship's wheel spun lazily by itself on the quarterdeck, which was built up over the gun deck. The forecastle deck was higher still, with the galley underneath. Two narrow catwalks ran between the forecastle and quarterdeck.

  As her shipmates spread out to search the Black Magic, George ducked under the quarterdeck and went all the way aft to discover what looked to be the captain's quarters, judging from the fold-up writing desk made of mahogany and the red silk curtains covering the window.

  The captain's log was on the floor, its pages open. George scanned it as she picked it up. Judging by the dates, the entry had been made 10 years ago, the time when the ship had vanished. Flipping through the pages, she frowned as she read one of the last entries, written in a hand that didn't match the captain's handwriting. "Ancker's hearing voices again. He says they tell him to stick the daggers he found into the eyes. No one's let him, all knowing the folly of it." Wrinkling her nose in distaste, George put the book on the desk and that's when she discovered a Latin and Algerian Sea Pass. George caught her breath. She'd heard of them but never seen one until now. The pass was proof that the Black Magic was Danish property. Written in Danish, English, French, and Latin letters, the paper was a permit that guaranteed safe passage through pirate waters. That way, no seamen from the Black Magic could be captured as slaves along the Barbary Coast. All the captain had to do was show the Latin and Algerian Sea Pass, and every pirate ship was obligated to let the Black Magic sail through its territory in peace.

  She tucked the pass into her waistband. He'd want to see this. And perhaps do a bit of forgery so the Crown could use it.

  A simple curtain separated the sleeping bunk from the rest of the room. When George pulled it back, her eyes widened and she yelled, "Captain Garcia! Mr. Mungo!"

  Moments later, their sharp heels clattered down the hallway, and they squeezed into the room alongside George. She pointed at the pile of human bones on the mattress.

  "No good ever comes when you're greeted by death," Mr. Mungo said. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his voice trembled. "I say we're looking at more than a ghost ship. This here's a dead-sure sign of a curse. It's bound to rub off unless we leave right—"

  Captain Garcia fished out the skull and examined it. Several back teeth were missing, but the front were made of gold. "Meet Joseph Fetch. We sailed together more than 15 years ago."

  Fifteen years, George thought. That's when they say Garcia was a pirate.

  Captain Garcia withdrew a sword from his side. Gripping the gold teeth between one thumb and forefinger, he smashed the jaw of the skull with the pommel in his other hand. Pocketing the gold,
Captain Garcia smiled and said, "I never liked him much."

  A man's scream echoed down the hallway.

  George scrambled to keep up with the captain and Mr. Mungo as they headed back down the hallway.

  Arno Jansen, the Danish cooper's mate, stumbled out of the mess, pale as sugar.

  Plates, silverware, jugs and bottles lay in a heap next to the table dominating the room, which was also full of bones, as if everyone on board had died here.

  "If it's not a curse, it could be disease," Mr. Mungo said as he slapped Jansen awake. "We should leave this ship before it's too late."

  "We'll check every deck first," Captain Garcia said. "And leave nothing of value behind."

  Mr. Mungo caught Arno Jansen as he fainted.

  * * * *

  The wooden steps creaked and groaned with every step that George took to the cargo hold below deck. Despite the sailcloth stacks that were supposed to bring in fresh air, the atmosphere was dense and smelled of rust and mold. But when she saw its cargo, she stared in shock. She'd never been onboard a ship like this before. Nothing could have prepared her. Like an anchor being dropped, she sank on a ladder step, too stunned to continue.

  The cargo hold was a field of bones and foot irons, below two tiers of wooden shelves that stretched across the hold. Thousands of yellowed bones carpeted the floorboards, squeaking as the motion of the sea made them rub against each other. They gleamed eerily in the dim light filtered through the small inverted glass pyramids embedded in the deck above, designed to carry light down below. With nothing left to bind each skeleton together, the bones were loose and scattered. Woven among the bones were chains and shackles.

  The Black Magic was a slave ship.

  George swallowed hard. She'd heard stories from other seamen about how they crammed human cargo into a ship's depths, chaining them together and making them lie down, shoulder to shoulder, in rows and on shelves stacked only 18 inches high. She'd heard when one came down ill, that illness spread so fast that by the time the ship arrived at port, the captain was happy if a third of his cargo and crew was still alive. Assuming the captain himself was still alive, as well.