The skeletons watched her, then gave a collective shrug. It was just their job to guard the wall, not what lay inside the wall. She wasn’t their problem anymore. “She just jumped on Thorin,” a skeletal warrior decked in rusted green laminar armor remarked. “Just jumped on him like he was a mushroom.”
“My spine feels a bit funny,” the kappa titan—Aku—complained, his hands soothing his mishandled carapace.
“Adventurers,” the ogre skeleton snarled. Thorin mumbled something deep within his ribcage.
Zaynne swept crushed vegetative matter from her armor. Thankfully, a roll through the garden of belladonna, foxglove, larkspur, oleander, wolf’s bane, and amanita mushrooms had broken her fall.
In front of her stood a twisting tower, its black spire piercing the heavens. Standing at the single metal door, a gargoyle made up of spiny skin, horned heads, and clawed feet tucked away a small paperback with a lurid cover. He reared to his full height as Zaynne marched forward, then boomed, “Those who wish to disturb the studies of the great and magnificent Severus Severyn the Serpentine must prove their strength in mind as well as brawn. In order to pass, you must answer all my riddles and find a riddle I cannot answer.”
“Fine,” Zaynne growled. “What’s metal, two feet long, and hurts more going in than going out?”
The gargoyle nervously eyed the sword at Zaynne’s side before giving a long sigh. “Look—me, Arthaxas the many-eyed, Lytle the squid, and Bob the lurker-in-the-darkness, we meet up for cards every week, and I got this thing going on with Cubie the Gelatinous Rhombus... We don’t need to make things difficult for any of the others, which would happen if we don’t have a fourth for euchre, or Cubie decides to go full digestive on whoever is left. Why don’t you do us all a favor and take the back stairs up to the big guy?” With a single wave of his claw, a smaller door appeared on the side of the tower, expertly disguised with signs advertising that it was not a door.
Zaynne gave him a stern nod before climbing the stairs.
Climbing the stairs, even the back stairs, of a magic tower is an incredible experience. Magic energy sparked over Zaynne’s head; the stairs rumbled and shook. Books, scrolls, and eldritch abominations flew up and down, carried by the wails of apprentices. Vistas to other worlds opened, showing desolate landscapes and luscious courts. At some landings reality grew weak, abstract, squamous, cubist, or sometimes just fuzzy. Zaynne marched through all of this—also past ancient libraries, abominable laboratories, and abundant store rooms—with nary a glance. She only stopped long enough to kick open the door at the top, the one marked “private—do not enter.”
Severus Severyn the Serpentine’s inner sanctum was a vast room, covered in layers of plush carpets, walls hosting elaborate tapestries, and carefully placed sculptured lamps meant to serve as conversation pieces—all of it dominated by Severus Severyn the Serpentine, now transformed into a giant snake with Tikka in his coils. (Turning into a giant snake never helps, but Severus Severyn the Serpentine was a traditionalist.)
“You—a mere mortal—think that you can command me, a powerful immortal sssorcerer?” Severus Severyn the Serpentine ominously hissed down at Tikka.
Tikka’s expression was that of implacable patience, but Zaynne could tell she was irritated. Her pince-nez had slid down from its normal spot.
“You get your hands-limbs-tail off my wife!” Zaynne interrupted.
Severus Severyn the Serpentine jerked his head to look at the intruder. “What foolish sssimpleton intrudesss upon usss?”
Zaynne raised a fist in the air and squared her shoulders while shouting, “I’m Zaynne the Barbarian, who defeated your army summoned from Mitra’s meteor, who stopped your Grand Ritual of the Two Moons—”
“Oh, one of you,” he hissed dismissively. “I will deal with your inconsequential grievancesss in turn.”
“She is also my wife,” Tikka added, “since you weren’t listening the first time.”
“Wife? People ssstill do sssuch thingsss?” He glanced at the sword at Zaynne’s side.
“Wait, if you didn’t kidnap Tikka to get revenge on me, then why did you kidnap her?” Confusion broke through her anger.
“For possessing the temerity to audit my taxesss!” he roared.
“We wouldn’t have audited them if you had done them correctly,” Tikka primly remarked.
“According to you ssssluggard gnashnabsss, how did I mishandle my taxesss?” He lifted Tikka closer to his giant mouth.
“First of all, you claimed your minions as dependents when they should be listed as employees—”
“Balderdash! I don’t pay them. I give them ssshelter, sssubstance, and sssalutory ssservice, I well-nigh rear them!” His hood flared up, fangs dripping.
“All that can be listed as pay using the Employment Law tome—”
“Sssilence! You diminutive zounderkitesss should be jubilant that I bothered to sssend you wherewithal at all! Your infuriating and labyrinthine sssystem ssserves a kingdom I owe naught!”
“Actually, you used the kingdom’s highways during your zombie invasion, you use the services of the kingdom’s coast guard to keep this island safe from pirates and marauders, and the kingdom’s mail service comes out every week—which you used to send in your faulty tax filing.” Tikka freed an arm from the coils to push up her pince-nez.
“Enough!” he spat.
“I would suggest listening to the accountant,” Zaynne threatened.
Severus Severyn the Serpentine’s head drooped. His hood folded and fangs retracted. “You ponderousss cumberworldsss impetrate too much—how is any vainglorousss sssorcerer expected to persist in this eon?”
“My firm helps clients with filing taxes, and specializes in saving them money on their tax returns.” Tikka’s hand twitched, trying to hold a quill that wasn’t there.
“Your firm could assist me?” He unraveled his tail from around Tikka.
“Yes. I have several suggestions for you.” Tikka didn’t pause her spiel as she regained her footing. “How long have you been a wizard?”
“I was begat before your mewling ancestors even mastered the sssparks of magic.” He rose to the height of the roof, scales turning from black to vibrant purple.
“So, more than one hundred years?” From under her robe, Tikka pulled a few thin sheets of parchment and her back-up quill, then used Severus Severyn the Serpentine’s scaly body as a writing surface.
“Thousandsss!” he hissed, posing for all to admire his grandeur.
“That means you are old enough to file for the heritage tax credit for places, objects, or people of significant cultural value.” Tikka’s quill swished as she continued to talk. “Are you planning on building any more structures on this island?
“I fail to fathom, ssspindly flibbertigibbet.” His scales dulled, and he tried unsuccessfully to pull his tail away from Tikka, finding nowhere to escape.
“I see that this island is part of the Fang Archipelago. Would I be correct in assuming that it contains basilisks?”
“Most assuredly it’s ssswarming with those lepidote lususss naturaesss,” he boasted. Zaynne wondered if some of those squawks in the swamp were her stepping on one.
“If you aren’t planning to expand your fortress, you could turn the rest of the island into an environmental haven for basilisks, and thus receive a refund on your property taxes.”
“I remember when Sssaint Ulric championed hisss crusade against the Basilisk Kingsss,” he hissed wistfully, eyes staring off into the distance.
“I suspect those annual celebrations of his victory are the reason they are now endangered,” Tikka said dryly, dragging Severus Severyn the Serpentine back to reality. “That woman who scryed on your crystal ball earlier—Enchantress of Amar?”
“Why do you inquire, you insensate gobermouch?”
“If your relationship with her is long-term, you may want to consider marriage to get the family tax credit.”
“Our amalgamation is rife with treachery,
carnality, and acrimony. No cleric would enslave our ssstygian hearts in pietistic matrimony.” He flared his hood again, scales bright red.
“You don’t need a cleric ceremony—just a civil one for the tax credits. As long as you are both of age and willing, the state will marry you.”
“What? The world has transfigured immeasurably...” His hood folded again, and his scales faded to a light pink.
“Of course, these are only my initial suggestions.” For the first time, Tikka broke eye contact. She rummaged around in her pockets and produced a small parchment card. “For a full consultation, please contact the address below to schedule. Note that we will be billing at our standard rate.”
“Ssstandard rate! You presumptuousss—”
There was a shwink as Zaynne drew her sword.
Severus Severyn the Serpentine looked at her nervously. “Ssstandard rate accepted. Our adjudication is sssatisfactory.” With that, he turned his scaly back, letting Zaynne and Tikka know that the meeting was over.
They were halfway down the stairs before Zaynne’s fuming started to idle, and Tikka was able to relax her face enough to form normal expressions.
“Thanks for coming for me,” Tikka softly said, taking Zaynne’s arm while stepping over a family of yellow tarantulas. “I may have been stuck listening to him for days before he calmed down enough to see reason.”
“I will always come for you,” Zaynne reassured, squeezing Tikka’s arm. “I’m just sad that you won’t be getting to go to the restaurant tonight.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” Tikka said dismissively, waving with her free hand. “The reservation is for two days from now.”
“What? But you told me it was today.” Zaynne searched her holey memory, felt at least somewhat sure that what she said was true.
“Yes, because you’ve never been on time for our anniversary, dearest. Last year, you got carried away by the wind demons, and the year before that, you were recruited by the Seven Queens and their clockwork crowns to fight against the Northern giants. The year before that—”
“Hey! I made it on time our first year.”
“You were literally dropped on our roof by a roc.” Tikka gave her a gentle smile, easing Zaynne’s wounded pride. “After all these years, I’m still learning how to accommodate your occupation. I do it because I love you.” Tikka gave a contented sigh.
Zaynne looked forward to the evening: berating a gargoyle into giving them a ride to the boat, Tikka soothing the boat as Zaynne pulled up the anchor, and watching the stars as the Octopus Bride took them home. Not that bad of an anniversary, all things considered.
The Parnassian Courante
by Claire Bartlett
The tournament began on the first day of high summer. Sunlight trickled like honey through the long windows of the Vane Hall, leaving long, glowing strips on the bonewood floor. Shadows merged in greeting, and court shoes clicked and shuffled. The hall was filling fast, and murmured voices swelled into a river of speculation: who would be the first to try for the princess’s hand, and did he have a lesser or greater chance of winning than the man who came after?
People were calling it the succession tournament, the marriage game, the princess duels. Astrid called it horrible. And she got a front-row seat.
Her stomach clenched like a fist and her nerves jumped whenever she looked over to the stage. It was a low, wooden platform, with a raised dais for the king’s throne at one end. At the other, a young man rolled his arms, breezily unconcerned. Agmund, the oldest—and largest—of the Birk family. He was one-sixteenth giant and it showed in his eight-foot frame, his colorless hair and jutting cheekbones, the hands that held a fencing sword the size of an actual fencepost. Astrid compared her missing fingers with his whole left hand and felt a pang of envy. Perhaps they shared common ancestors, but there was a man who never had to choose between selling himself and freezing to death in one of Jotunheim’s snowstorms.
King Olve beckoned his daughter to him and she reluctantly came. He clapped her on the back and whatever he said made her roll her cornflower-blue eyes and smile a grim, hard smile. The feud between King Olve and his daughter was infamous. She’d broken an engagement with the Aska family when she was twelve, and she’d refused to reconsider or take another suitor. She’d told her father in private that she wanted girls, not boys, but while the law of the land did not forbid two women to marry, Olve seemed disinclined to allow it. Heirs, he complained. Alliances. Suitable matches. Their arguments became more heated, until Nik made the challenge: anyone who could defeat her in single combat could marry her. They’d shaken hands, arranged the tournament, and now people flooded in from all areas of Jotunheim and beyond, ready to try their skill.
Astrid forced herself to stop looking at Nik and focus on the court around her. She’d been selected as a student scribe for the tournament, and she had to keep her professors impressed if she wanted to keep the assignment... and her scholarship. It was a two-tiered task: aloud, most people talked of petty nothings like the weather or the evening’s festivities, but their bodies spoke a different language. They wore flowers and colors to support their preferred candidates, and fans fluttered in argument over who had what kind of chance. Astrid’s pen flowed over her paper, documenting all she saw with broad sweeps and comforting rasps, until a short trumpet blast made her start and squiggle ink across the page. She stifled an urge to curse like Nik would have done and looked up as King Olve took his throne.
The throne was a bonewood chair carved intricately with a scene of Jotunheim’s giants of old locked in battle with a brigade of men. Olve sat just over a giant’s back in a courtly assertion of dominance. He and his daughter shared red-gold hair, copper skin, and sharp noses. But his eyes were dark and calculating, while hers had always been warm and ready to smile. And when he spoke, his voice scratched, not at all like her melodious tone.
“Anyone who knows my daughter Nikhilde has seen her strong will,” the king said. Astrid bit her lip. Strong will was an understatement. “She exercises it in all she does, and so it would be foolish to make an exception for her marriage, no?” He laughed. The court followed. In his corner, Agmund smirked, but Nik said nothing. Her fingers fluttered as though exercising an invisible flute. “And so, the game! Any man who can defeat my daughter in combat may claim the right to marry her. He need not be of royal blood or high standing, or even of the first five families. He may be as rich or as poor as any other man in the kingdom. But the losers pay—a thousand daler per match.”
Thus ensuring that nobody poor could enter, Astrid thought bitterly. Olve’s steward announced Agmund as the first challenger, and he and Nik bowed to each other. “Your weapon of choice?” the steward said, though everyone already knew the answer.
“Fencing foil.” Agmund was a celebrated champion.
Nik nodded curtly. She wouldn’t have expected anything else. She took her foil from the fencing master, and they faced off.
“First to draw blood,” the king pronounced, and brought his hand down in a decisive chop. Astrid’s own right hand clenched around her skirt.
Agmund leapt forward, all grace and speed and unbelievable reach. Nik ducked easily under his arm and slashed up in a move that made the assembly catch their collective breath. He parried, stepped within her guard, forced her back. Their foils flashed like silver whips.
Nik bared her teeth as she turned his blows aside, and Astrid could see how her arm trembled each time their foils met. He was far stronger than she. All the same, she managed to swipe at him again and he only avoided her by leaping back to the edge of the stage. He blew a kiss at her, then lunged.
He has some trick up his sleeve, Astrid thought.
But if he did, he didn’t have the chance to use it. His puckered lips widened in a snarl of pain, and Nik skipped nimbly backward, bringing her foil up. The tip glistened darkly.
Slightly disappointed applause broke out around the hall. Astrid bit her lip again to keep from smiling.
For the first time, Nik’s eyes slid to hers. The corner of her mouth twitched. See? she seemed to be saying. But when she opened her mouth, she said, “Who’s next?”
* * *
Astrid first met Nik three years prior, in the basement of the Elfin Crown. It had been a classic autumn day in Jotunheim, all howling winds and sleet that would turn the night streets to ice, and both her clothes and her research notes were soaked. Contrary to popular belief, part-giants were not immune to Jotunheim’s weather, so she set up at the circular table in the corner with a glass of wine and a couple of extra candles to try to dry everything out a little.
She was working on a paper for a student conference. From War to Seduction: the Evolution of Courtly Dance. She didn’t notice Nik until she heard a sharp, “Oh.” Nik stood in front of her, peeling off soaking layers to reveal a loose black shirt and leather trousers. Despite the gloom of the basement, her skin glowed from long hours of exercise in the sun. Her eyes were as bright as the sky, her nose crooked from some fight she lost long ago. Back then she had long hair, and it hung in a copper braid over one shoulder. She’d never been good at schooling her expression, and her full mouth was twisted in amusement or annoyance. Behind her stood her manservant, who was most definitely on the annoyance side. “We were told this table was free.”
Astrid resisted the urge to jerk her partially amputated hand under the table. “I—my apologies,” she stammered. She knew how to address the princess of Jotunheim in court—and her manservant—but the princess was clearly trying not to be recognized, and her eyes were so blue, and she looked so puzzled that Astrid didn’t know which manners were best. Her eyes lingered on the hollow at Nik’s throat.
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