"Very well. Renshaw… Silas. You're injured?"
"Huh?" The pains returned, as though back from a voyage. "I… I'm…"
"He took some hard knocks yesterday," Master Gunnar said.
"Spend today recovering," she said. "Tomorrow, you'll train with me. I'll see what third best is good for."
"Yes, Mistress von Talhoffer. I… I'll…"
But she'd already turned on her heel and walked away.
***
Clara pulled herself up onto the windowsill, lost her balance, and toppled into her bedroom. She landed in a crouch — more out of luck than grace. Things oozed under her hands. She fell backwards and her head tapped the wall.
Leaves. Just leaves that'd blown in because she'd left the shutters open. She gathered them up and dropped the clump outside.
Light hadn't conquered the wardrobe yet. Menace radiated from its crevices, where shadow-spiders blinked in and out of existence. But Clara held her ground and her nerve. Rayya was right. Must be right. And tonight they'd prove it.
Wood creaked. Clara's body twanged like a bowstring. She rolled her eyes, lifted her foot, pressed it down again. Same creak. Stupid, stupid Clara.
She washed her face. Hacked at her hair with the brush. Yawned. She'd love to fall into bed. Snatch more sleep to complete the pieces she'd gathered in Rayya's room. But… No. Not till tonight.
A buzz stopped her on the way to the kitchen. She put her ear to her mother's door. Ella normally went to bed later and woke earlier than she did. Clara couldn't remember the last time she'd heard her mum snore. She wanted to sneak inside, curl up next to Ella Mandrake, and listen to it forever.
Clara took her hand off the doorknob and sighed.
In the kitchen she reached for the woodpile. Things crawled in the shadow of her hand. She pulled it away and they vanished. Just more mind-spiders. Crazy Clara spiders. All those times her mother said little girls needed their sleep, she'd been telling the truth. Tonight they'd fix that. For now… Clara built the fire and opened the tinderbox. She scraped her thumb a couple of times, yelped, but swallowed most of the sound so she wouldn't wake her mum. After a few more fumbles, the flame caught.
Clara watched it for some moments and warmed her hands. Then she went out to fetch water. The full pail yanked her shoulders half out of their sockets. Splashes hit her legs and feet, turned them to ice. But she made it back inside with most of the water, warmed her hands again, dried off, and set to work.
"Huh?" Ella blinked in the doorway, yawned, and rubbed her face. "Clara?"
"Breakfast!"
Clara set the bowl of porridge on the table. The aroma of oats and eggs wafted between them. Her mum stared.
"Breakfast. You made breakfast."
"Yep! Oh… There might be bits of shell in it. Cracking eggs is hard."
Ella laughed. Clara beamed. They sat down and ate. Clara waited till her mother looked full, warm, and content.
"Mum… Can Rayya sleep here tonight?"
"If the Shimuds say it's okay." Something crunched between her teeth. Her lips twitched from side to side. "Tomorrow, I'll teach you to crack them properly."
Mother and daughter hugged, and Clara breathed in Ella Mandrake's scent. A smile warmed her face as she left the house. It tingled when she stopped by the gatepost, traced her father's carvings. Clara closed her eyes and a dark shape stood over her bed. A blink banished it. The smile recovered, and widened when Rayya met her in the lane.
"If Tommy says anything…" Clara said.
"Just don't kill him, okay?"
"Not even a little?"
They chuckled.
The other kids whooped and rampaged in the field, as usual. It wasn't cold enough to drive them indoors yet. A few of them watched Clara, including Tommy. His face resembled a chunk of meat from the butcher's shop. But he didn't say anything. Didn't come over. He went back to his conversation, and everyone else did the same.
"Nice one." Leah appeared beside Clara. Or maybe it was Kasey.
"Yeah," the other twin said. "Tommy hasn't beaten anyone up since you battered him."
"Do it once a week. Please?"
The four girls giggled. Tommy glanced over, then looked away again.
Miss Jazrah's lesson flowed in and out of Clara's ears. But Rayya didn't have to kick her awake, so that was okay.
"Clara!" The teacher tapped her chalk on the blackboard. "Is that syllable stressed or unstressed?"
She frowned, stared at the line of poetry above the chalk, and said, "Stressed?"
"Yes. Good."
Her gaze moved on in search of other victims. The lesson drifted along, and so did Clara. The rest of the school day melted away in turn.
"…dress like a witch for the festival." Rayya kicked a pile of leaves. It burst into a cascade of red and gold. The colours clung to their boots as they walked down the lane. "But mum said if a real witch saw me, she'd pull my heart out and eat it."
"Tasty."
"Gross."
"With mint and mustard?"
"Okay. Maybe tasty…"
The Mandrake house was empty. Gloom had gathered in the corners, spilled out over floors, crept up walls, across ceilings. Clara lit a candle and light reclaimed the world around them.
Rayya approached the wardrobe. She inspected it as though for the first time, ran her fingers along its grooves. Clara's heartbeat quickened when her friend grasped the handle. Rayya paused, met Clara's eyes, and waited for her to nod. The door opened. Rayya peered inside.
"No monsters." She closed the wardrobe and smiled.
They sat on Clara's bed and talked. The room brightened with every passing minute. This was her room. A place for Clara Mandrake and her friend — not nightmares, madness, or monsters.
"Girls! Dinner!"
Heat hung in the kitchen. It cuddled Clara, snuggled her into smells of ginger, garlic, and roasted duck.
"…turned her purple."
"What's the cat's name?" Ella said.
"Buskin. That's a kind of boot…"
Clara sat there, chewed meat, and nestled within the voices of the two people she loved most in the world. Ella Mandrake laughed. Rayya laughed. And Clara ignored the crazy black things. They'd be gone tomorrow. She'd wake up, rested and refreshed, hug her mother, hug Rayya, and laugh on the way to school about how silly she'd been.
"Clara?"
She blinked.
"Huh?"
"Camomile?" her mum said.
"Oh, sure. Thanks."
The tea added its fragrance to the melange. Rayya wrapped her hands around her cup, shivered despite the kitchen's warmth, and half-swallowed a yawn. A pang hit Clara's heart. Her nightmares had terrified her mother, and last night they'd ruined her friend's sleep too. She vowed she'd make it up to both of them somehow. Maybe she'd bake them a cake. With honey, and bits of eggshell. Because cracking eggs was hard…
Back in Clara's bedroom, Rayya unleashed another yawn. Clara yawned in turn, and the volley went back and forth till each exhalation was half laughter. They put on their nightshirts. Clara climbed into bed. Rayya brushed her hair and gave Clara a look.
"What?"
"If you don't do your hair-"
"Too tired. Tomorrow."
"Come here." Rayya rolled her eyes.
Clara sighed. She sat up. Rayya scrambled into place behind her and went to work with the brush. Each stroke soothed her scalp.
She'd make sure there were no bits of shell in that cake…
***
"Fetch us another one!"
Old Joss sipped his ale and tried to ignore her.
"Oi, gorgeous! Another beer!"
His handbell rested on the bar. The entire taproom swam within its metal. It bent and scrunched the traveller into a blob.
"Just a sec, love," Sasha said.
The barmaid deployed tankards from her tray, onto the table next to the outsider's. Joss glanced over his shoulder. The woman was just as obnoxious out of the bell. Good doublet though.
Deep, plush blue. A matching sapphire glimmered on her ring.
"Bloody merchants."
He muttered it, but Sven glared at him from the other side of the bar.
"Their coin's always good," the barkeep whispered, "even if their manners aren't. And-"
"Hey!"
Sasha's cry and the clatter of her tray snapped both their heads round.
The traveller's hand clasped the barmaid's buttock for an instant longer. Then Sasha turned. Sven swore and stumbled out from behind the bar. The merchant screamed.
"Oi! Gerroff!"
Sasha wrenched the woman's arm, slammed her chest and cheek down on the table. Sven reached out but thought better of it. Joss didn't think Sasha would toss her boss out the window, but the possibility was there.
"Sasha!" the barkeep said.
The barmaid grunted and released the hammerlock. The traveller clasped her shoulder and roared.
"If that's how you treat paying customers, I'm not staying! Give me back my money."
Sasha snorted.
"This is the only public house in the village, you stupid cow! You'll sleep upstairs or in your wagon."
"Oh…"
The women held each other's gazes.
"Fine. Just bring me another beer."
"No more touching."
"Fine."
Sasha picked up the tray and walked off. Sven returned to the bar and wiped his brow. Joss finished his drink.
"Want another?" the barkeep said.
Joss scratched his beard. Back to an empty house, or another ale… But he knew what happened when he went over his limit. It always ended in tales and tears.
"No thanks."
"Okay. Good night."
"Night."
Joss picked up his bell. His hand shook and the ringer swung. Its clang didn't turn any heads, but raised a small chorus.
"Night, Joss!"
He nodded to the room at large.
"Oi!" The traveller gestured at him with her new tankard. "Take that thing with you to the outhouse too?"
Now heads turned. A mass intake of breath stretched the atmosphere taut. Joss looked from his bell to the merchant.
"Yeah," he said. "Never leaves my side."
She shrugged and drank. Joss opened the door and everyone breathed out.
He plodded down the lane. Steadied his fingers, so the bell wouldn't ring again. Thought about the day he'd first held it. The bright eyes. Sweet grin. Calloused hands.
Leaves crunched behind him. A throat hissed. Joss spun round, and the universe contracted around a face. Their eyes met. The Kharji froze, then the man's arm moved. Moonlight flashed. Joss cried out and his own hand flew up.
Metal clanged on metal.
The Kharji backed up half a step, as though the sound had knocked him away. His heel caught a clump of leaves and he staggered. Joss ran past him. Ran and swung.
"Help! Murder! Help!"
The bell echoed around him. It muffled his footsteps, his heart, his lungs, and they all become one. Candlelight poured out of the pub window, pooled in the lane.
"Help!"
Agony tore through his abdomen. His legs gave out. His knees hit the ground. Crimson glistened on the thing that stuck out of his body. It slid back inside and his innards screamed.
His hands tried to open. Joss clenched one. He slumped on his side but still grasped the bell. His face and the moonlight twitched within its depths. It was beautiful. As beautiful as the day his wife made it for him.
Boots ran past. One pair, then another, then another. Kharjis disappeared into the darkness.
4
"Allatu Akbar!"
"Allatu Akbar!"
Their war cry jumped from throat to throat. The chorus rippled throughout the village of Traverd, and Barzik Khan roared at the heavens.
"Allatu Akbar!"
His warriors dashed in all directions. Flames streamed from their torches, lit their faces, brightened their blades. Pious words flew from every lip.
"Allatu Akbar!"
A woman's boot crashed against a door. It fell inwards, hung off its hinges. She ran inside. Further along, a young fighter slammed her shoulder at another entrance, on the opposite side of the road. She rebounded and snarled. Barzik moved to aid her. But she stepped back, looked up, and threw her torch. It spun end over end, a wheel of fire, and disappeared through the window. She waited, sword in hand. Allat would receive a burnt offering, or else they'd emerge and the sacrifice would spill out in blood. Either would bring glory to the One Goddess.
"Allatu Akbar." This time he whispered, for Allat's ears alone.
A woman screamed. The Kharji hurtled backwards through the door she'd kicked down, landed in a heap. Her torso heaved and glistened. A figure lumbered out after her. It loomed over the warrior, raised an arm. Muscle bulged and fat quivered. The cleaver caught the moon on its edge.
Barzik roared and charged. His voice stayed the butcher's hand, drew the man's gaze. The warlord wasn't far behind. He thrust his sword at the slab of flesh over his enemy's heart.
The butcher's bulk twisted away. It was a dancer's grace, as out of place on that body as a ball gown. Barzik's sword pierced the air and the cleaver hacked. Steel came down on the mass of beard upon the Khan's chest.
It clinked.
The impact sunk into the warlord's lungs. But not the blade. His beard held that back as though made of mail. The butcher froze. Incomprehension softened his features. Barzik Khan's sword sliced into the side of his neck. Allat's Earring sheared through tendon and bone. The butcher's head flew from his shoulders, crimson sprayed, and his body thumped the earth.
Barzik squatted beside his warrior. He reached to staunch the flow, but their eyes met, a coppery tang flooded his nose, and both knew it was too late.
"Allat has a banquet for you," he said. "Go. Feast. One day we'll all follow."
Her lips twitched, maybe in prayer. Her body shook and breath rasped between her teeth. Barzik Khan closed her eyes. He rose, and his mane settled against his chest and back. The Goddess' gift. Her other blessing glinted in his hand.
The warlord stormed off, to put both miracles to use in her name.
***
Miss Jazrah yawned. She put her quill down and massaged her eyelids. Fingertips dampened her skin. She pulled them away, grimaced, and looked around for a mirror. The candlestick was the nearest thing. She held it up, peered at the fish-like reflection, winked each eye. Blue. Miss Jazrah shrugged. It didn't look that bad, and a woman of letters had to expect the occasional war wound. She put the candle back and rubbed her eyes again.
The poem sharpened under her nose. Blots, smears, and fingerprints surrounded its stanzas. The border was quite fetching. Perhaps she'd have the children decorate their own poems that way…
She took up the quill and nibbled the end. Syllables thumped in her head. Anapaestic hexameters were harder to fashion than to read, and she already regretted this plan. But she was in too deep to retreat now. And the poem had to demonstrate every rhythm the children had learned, verse by verse.
Miss Jazrah got up and paced the schoolroom. She passed from candlelight to shadow. Her footfalls rapped.
*Ti-ti-tap* *Ti-ti-tap* *Ti-ti-tap*
She closed her eyes. Walked between the desks. The pattern rang through her body.
*Ti-ti-tap* *Ti-ti-tap* *Ti-ti-tap*
Stressed and unstressed syllables arranged themselves in her mind. A word emerged. Another came, couldn't find its place, and sank again. But there were more. Her feet tapped them into being, one by one, until the next hexameter took shape.
Noises floated through the night. They bounced off the anapaests.
*Ti-ti-tap* *Ti-ti-tap* *Ti-ti-tap*
What rhymed with tongue? Flung. Lung. Dung. Stung! That'd work. And she could-
The bang rocked her thoughts. Her eyes flicked open. She stumbled. The toe of her shoe caught the floor and her feet scrabbled for purchase.
*Tap-tap-taptap*
H
er palms hit the edge of her desk. The flame flickered. Ink sloshed. Floorboards creaked in the hall outside. Miss Jazrah glared. If the butcher's girl and baker's daughter thought they could turn her schoolhouse into a scene of drunken debauchery again…
She set aside the quill and grabbed the inkwell. A bucket of cold water was more appropriate for dogs in heat, but this would have to do.
Wood groaned outside the classroom door. Miss Jazrah pulled the knob and dashed ink into the face of a man in a flowing chemise. They swore in different languages. She backed away. Something clattered on the floor and both his hands clawed at his eyes. Ink dripped between his fingers.
Miss Jazrah turned and ran for the window. The latch fumbled under her hands. It wouldn't budge! It… It flipped aside. She tore the shutters open, flung herself into the night like a woman half her age and weight. The teacher smacked the ground. Gasped. Rolled onto her back. Stared up at three Kharjis' faces and shrieked.
Their sword points burst through her body.
***
Fahmaia's enemy stood in an aura of light. The mawlana glared. The statue gazed back from atop the altar. It wore a smile and nothing else. She advanced towards it, sword in hand. Shadows filled the pews on either side of her. They lounged against the walls, upon carvings of grapes, sheaves of wheat, and other things the darkness hid. The only worshippers this false goddess deserved.
The candles around the statue flickered. Light and dark shifted as though to clothe and unclothe her bosoms. Around the altar's base, an arrangement of pitchforks, hoes, and shovels creaked. Fahmaia stopped. She took up a fighting stance.
"There's nothing of value in our temple."
An apparition flitted in the gloom beyond the altar. It moved into the candlelight and became a man in a nightshirt. Sleeves and hem flapped around his body. The priest planted himself in front of the idol.
"I'm not a robber. I'm here for the good of the world, not wealth."
His cheek twitched. Fahmaia stepped into the light and their eyes met. The priest didn't cringe or gawk at her markings. That made her hesitate instead. A smile crossed his lips and he looked a decade younger.
"Many gods have power." He crouched and reached for the altar without turning. "They don't all require murder for their miracles."
Clara Mandrake's Monster Page 5
