Bad Little Girls Die Horrible Deaths: And Other Tales of Dark Fantasy

by Connolly, Harry

  “Which they did.”

  “They are unlike other dogs. They have taken power from the flesh of the creatures they kill. Some of that power they retain and some slips away over time. They keep hunting to replace the magic they lose.”

  One of the dogs gripped Kama’s sleeve in its teeth and pulled. She ducked behind a fallen tree and peeked toward the clearing. Jebul looked back at her, his face full of helpless fear, and Kama suddenly understood that he was not the master of this pack; he was its human face, and the bait in its trap.

  Jebul stepped into the clearing. He looked from side to side and scanned the tree tops. He walked forward reluctantly. In his red cloak, he looked like an archery target. Kama couldn’t see the dogs anywhere. He glanced back at her.

  Suddenly the elf was beside him. Jebul stepped back, but the creature grabbed his wrist so quickly Kama didn’t see it move.

  The elf was a marvel. It was at least a head taller than Jebul, and as slender as a praying mantis. It wore nothing more than a knife, and Kama was shocked to see its tiny genitals dangling in the sunlight. Its ears stretched up and back like the horns of a goat and its skin was tinged with blue. It grabbed Jebul by the jaw and bared his neck. Its teeth looked like a fistful of needles.

  It bent forward, and the air was suddenly full of streaking shadows. In the time it took Kama to blink, the elf lay on the ground with two hounds gripping each of its limbs and others tearing at its throat and genitals.

  Kama ran into the clearing. It had all happened so fast. She had almost seen something amazing, something magical… The elf’s head was tilted back, and its mouthful of spiked teeth gave Kama a chill.

  One of the dogs looked up at her and growled, gore dripping from its mouth.

  “They won’t let you near it,” Jebul said. He knelt beside a tree, hurriedly rolling his cloak into a ball. “It’s their kill.” The cloak slipped from his fingers, and Jebul held up his hands. They trembled.

  A dog whined, and Kama turned back to the kill. One of the hounds lay on its side, breathing heavily. Kama edged toward it and saw the silver knife sticking out of its belly and its milky white eye. It was Scar.

  Two of the dogs dropped chunks of elf meat in front of Scar, which the wounded hound gulped down whole. Another dog gripped the knife in its teeth and gingerly slid it free. Blood splashed onto the grass.

  Scar was dying. Despite its power and its elvish food, it was going to die.

  Kama drew her knife and approached the hound. The other dogs growled and flattened their ears, but she ignored them. Ameez should not have called her an animal; animals were beautiful. Kama laid the blade against her forearm.

  “What are you doing?” Jebul asked. She drew the knife across her skin and let it fall into the dirt. The cut didn’t hurt nearly as much as one of Ameez’s whippings.

  “What are you doing?” Jebul shouted, his voice becoming shrill. Kama held her bloody cut before Scar’s nose, and the dog laid its burning hot tongue against it.

  “Stop!” Jebul said, “You don’t understand what I’ve been doing here, what I’ve been doing for most of my life. These animals… they aren’t natural anymore. They’re monstrous. For years I’ve been searching for something too powerful for them to kill.”

  Scar rolled onto his feet. The blood only trickled from its wounded gut. It lapped at Kama’s arm, drinking down her blood, and its flint black eye stared up at her.

  “Please,” Jebul said. “Please don’t save its life. Not when I’ve been trying to kill them for so lo—”

  Kama heard a sudden rushing sound behind her, and Jebul was cut off in mid-breath. She heard something tear, and Jebul was silent. She didn’t care. She had killed her master, too. Scar lapped at her arm, drinking her blood, scorching her with his hot tongue.

  Finally, the hound stood, and backed away from her under his own power. The pack backed away from their kill. Kama could see the pale, torn flesh and pink elvish blood a few feet away.

  The dogs were watching her. They were beautiful, every one, and she loved them from the bottom of her soul. Could she become the thing Ameez had called her? Could she dare hope for so much?

  She crawled to the elf’s body on her hands and knees, bent her head to its flesh, and began to feed.

  Eating Venom

  This is the last thing I sold to Black Gate magazine before it stopped publishing a paper edition and became a group blog. The story seed came from a long ago internet kerfuffle, but it took a surprising number of false starts until I found the right plot and POV. That’s always annoying—sometimes the stories you put the most work into are the most flawed—but I’m pleased with how this came out.

  –– –- ––

  There was only one man on the expedition Altane did not recognize, but because of the fellow’s contempt for the servants, his deference to the Holders and his embroidered silk vest, Altane assumed he was a Tenant—likely the cropsman of the very lands they traveled. True, the embroidered designs on his vest were… abstract, but perhaps fashions had changed during his months in the hill country.

  But when they arrived at the ruined meadow, Laurent told the man to fetch arrows from his pack. The man bowed and obeyed.

  He is a servant, Altane realized, just like me. Altane touched the stinking, sweat-stained leather vest he wore. Or not like me at all.

  I hate him.

  Obair snapped his fingers and Altane bowed to him. Obair wanted him to hobble the mules. They had caught a scent that frightened them. Altane obeyed his master. He always obeyed his master.

  Like Altane, Obair was dressed for the wilderness. Whether they were in the most distant part of the Holdings, in the family hall or, as today, just a few days ride from Holdfort, he wore leathers that stank of sweat and the blood of old game. This is the man, Altane thought, not for the first time, who is supposed to reward my service with a tenancy or a caravan.

  Laurent’s servant was dressed as if he already had his reward. Next to him, Altane looked like a rabbit poacher.

  Laurent called to his brother. Obair approached, Altane following at his left shoulder.

  “Choose one for me,” Laurent said, sweeping his hand above the oilcloth his servant held. Four arrows lay there, each with a barbed tip of solid gold.

  Obair squinted at them without answering. Altane wondered what those arrows were worth. How many embroidered silk vests he could buy if he rode off with them?

  Something in his body language made Laurent’s servant look at him. It was the look a butcher gives to a fatted pig, cool and deadly. Altane noticed that one of the servant’s eyes was green and the other was brown. Perhaps he had once been two men, now joined together.

  Let them both try me, Altane thought, keeping his hand away from his sword for the moment. One well-placed stroke would ruin that fine green vest.

  Still, something in the man’s manner gave him a chill.

  “Brother?” Laurent asked. His tone was cheerful. His smile was broad and his teeth gleaming white. Obair, who was as near-sighted as a mole, knew nothing about archery.

  Obair rubbed his shaved head. If he knew his brother was making fun of him, he didn’t show it. “I recommend the straight one.”

  Laurent laughed. Obair walked to the crest of the hill ahead. Altane followed. The guards, cart drivers and handlers kept well back.

  Laurent tied back his black oiled curls while his servant strung the bow. Obair had already stopped at the crest of the hill. Laurent and his man joined him.

  Behind them, the grass was a crisp summer green and the oaks rustled in the breeze. Ahead and to the east of them lay a meadow that was blackened as if by a firestorm. The tree trunks were ashy and bare, and the grass had crumbled into black dust. Even the rocks were gray and cracked.

  Farther east, the river was dark, as though a huge, unseen tower cast a shadow across it. At the northern edge of the ruined field, a tumble of rocks rose toward the foot of the mountains.

  There. The beast was sunning itsel
f on a wide flat rock. It was too far away to see clearly, but Altane could make out glints of blue against gleaming black. It appeared to be coiled on itself—

  Obair laid his hand on Altane’s chest and pushed him back. Both men looked down. A dandelion half a step away from them suddenly blackened and died, crumbling to dust. The poison was spreading.

  “Baby Boy,” Obair said, “Time is short.”

  “Nonsense,” Laurent answered. “The beast will be within range for hours yet.”

  Altane stared at the creature. An arrow might cover the distance, but could Laurent hit it? And what would the beast do if he missed?

  Altane noticed that his master was squinting in the wrong direction. Obair could barely read road signs at the distance of two cavalry lances—he couldn’t possibly see the beast itself. Not that he would admit that, of course. As always, Obair would pretend to see. It was Altane’s duty to watch and discreetly report. Very discreetly. None of the Holders could afford to acknowledge weakness, no matter how many people knew the truth. The stable hands may have called him Squint-Eye, but they made sure they were out of earshot first.

  He needs me, but he must not depend on me too much. Obair’s father, Deed Holder to the lands south of the mountains, had come to rely too much on his servant. He had never released and rewarded him. Altane sometimes saw the old servant bent over the Holder’s sickbed, rubbing salve onto his master’s swollen joints.

  That won’t happen to me. He would not spend the long years of his life tying reins to tree branches and collecting firewood. He would serve well enough to make Obair grateful, but not so well that his master would cling to him. He had already discouraged Obair’s initial gestures of comradeship. Better a respectful—and lucrative—distance than servitude without end.

  Assuming his master survived the task ahead of him, of course.

  Laurent selected an arrow and strode to the edge of the poisoned earth. A small crowd of guards and servants stood in their stirrups or on carts to watch. Laurent drew, held as though posing for a portrait, then loosed the arrow.

  Incredibly, it struck home. The beast on the rock spasmed for several minutes, then uncoiled and lay still.

  The men cheered. Altane turned to Obair and widened his eyes to let his master know it was an impressive shot. Obair went to his brother and congratulated him.

  Altane walked down the hill. He untied the ropes holding the canvas sheeting over his master’s cart and rolled back the heavy cloth.

  Beneath was a second cart. It was made of oak, but every inch was covered with a thin sheet of hammered gold. Three slender, flexible bands of gold lay across the top. Latched to the side was a brass gaff that had a golden hook at one end and two wide golden grips at the other. Beneath the golden cart was a long chest.

  From the chest, Altane took out a pair of golden shoes and two wide sheets of gold foil.

  Altane knelt before his master. He removed Obair’s boots, then slid the metal shoes onto his feet. He then wrapped Obair’s shins in gold foil, tucking it into the shoes. He latched the shoes closed.

  Altane didn’t dare even to daydream about riding off with this treasure, not with every eye on him. An unguarded thought might make his gaze linger or his hand hesitate, and then they would begin to talk about him.

  “Please move slowly, sir,” Altane said. “These hooks are a bit loose.”

  “I am not afraid,” Obair said. His voice was flat.

  Altane rolled the golden cart onto the road, then gave the handle to his master. Obair pulled it behind him as he walked up the hill. The golden shoes made him waddle. He looked like a child pulling a wagon.

  He should have a more dignified death, Altane thought. He closed his eyes, trying to clear doubt and fear from his mind. His master would be fine.

  But if he wasn’t fine—if he died—who would grant Altane his reward?

  Altane followed him up the hill. Obair’s stride was careful and steady. The Holder heirs never showed fear.

  Laurent caught his brother’s arm. “You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.” Altane thought there was a malicious glint in the man’s eye.

  Obair didn’t look away from the poisoned meadow ahead of him. “I’m not afraid.” Then he walked onto the blackened earth.

  He did not stagger and fall. He did not clutch at his throat and turn cinder-black. He did not shrivel and collapse into a pile of ash. He took step after careful, measured step toward the dead creature.

  Altane realized he was holding his breath and exhaled loudly. Laurent and his servant glanced at him. The servant smirked.

  Show nothing, he thought. He let his face become slack. All he could do was pretend his whole future wasn’t at stake.

  Obair neared the flat rock. With the pole, he dragged the beast onto the cart, then fastened the golden bands over it. He began to walk back.

  The closer he came to the edge of the poisoned earth, the more certain Altane became that a speck of wind-blown dust would brush against Obair’s skin. That he would step into a hole and leaf ash would fall into his shoes. That the beast would suddenly wake and spit on him. That his master would die.

  It didn’t happen.

  Obair walked out of the meadow and down the hill onto a flat part of the road. He left poisonous black footprints and cart tracks behind him. Stable hands and guards gathered as close as they dared as Obair hooked the little cart to the back of the larger one.

  The beast lay strapped on the cart, head tilted back, mouth open, black tongue lolling. Its wings were feathered in black, silver and blue, and the scales along its serpentine body glistened in the same colors. It looked greasy and venomous.

  And there, between its scaly chicken legs…. Altane felt a surge of nausea. Damnation, he thought it has a cock like a dog’s.

  Around Obair’s golden shoes, the poison spread slowly outward, blackening the earth and killing the grass. Altane peeled off the foil with a tiny golden hook. Where it struck the ground, the foil turned it black. Altane unlatched his master’s shoes. Obair stepped out of them onto unspoiled grass. No one went near the abandoned gold.

  “It will be a year before this part of the Holding recovers.” Obair’s voice was shaky and he stunk of fear-sweat. Altane did not look at his master’s face as he laced up his boots.

  The servants readied the carts and horses for the return trip. Altane carried the shoes and foil to the golden cart.

  Laurent admired the slain creature from a safe distance. “There should be a song about this.” He grinned at Obair. “I just slew a basilisk.”

  * * *

  Rain had fallen overnight, but the sky was clear by dawn. The archer assigned the last watch over the cart was found dead, his shriveled hand still clutching the gold plate he had tried to peel away.

  The golden cart had been left near the bottom of a hill, where the rain would wash the poisoned ash and basilisk blood away from camp. As they traveled, the cart’s wheels no longer turned the earth black, but no one tried to convince themselves it was safe.

  By mid-afternoon of the following day, the company arrived at Laurent’s silk house, a brothel just far enough from Crab Bay and Holdfort that Laurent’s father could ignore it, but close enough that it was making Laurent rich.

  Podor, the eldest brother and true heir, was waiting for them by the front gate. Seated beside him on a long, low divan were three impeccably dressed women from the house. Altane recognized them from previous visits; each was a favorite of one of the brothers. Behind Podor were caravaners, tenants, guild heads and other local power players anxious to curry favor with the next generation of the Holder family.

  Oak tables and chairs had been set up in the wide, flat field south of the silk house. Roast hens, fresh crackbread, tubs of yellow butter and bowls of early summer brownberries sat untouched on the tabletops. A celebration was about to start.

  The cart was unhitched at the far side of the road and a guard posted to keep people at a safe distance. Partygoers wandered over to look at
the creature but no one got close.

  Flute and drum players struck up a jaunty tune. Laurent and Obair were welcomed as heroes.

  Which they were, of course. As the wine jugs were broken open and the crackbread smeared with butter, Laurent’s servant told the crowd about his master’s amazing shot and Obair’s trek across the poisoned earth. When it was over, caravaners called for the story to be repeated, so he told it again. Then again.

  The Holder brothers toasted each other, and Altane was struck by how different they were. Podor was tall and lean, with short-clipped hair and simple, unornamented silk clothes. Laurent was shorter and thick around the waist. His silks were ornate and he wore a jewel on each finger. Last, Obair, the middle child, shaved his head entirely and dressed in animal skins. If they had not been bound by blood and service to their family, Altane doubted they would even speak to each other.

  Before the tale could be told a fourth time, Podor leaped onto the table and led the crowd in a cheer for his brothers. Altane thought Obair’s cheer was louder than Laurent’s. From the strained smile on Laurent’s face, Laurent thought so, too. But what did he expect? He shot a bow from a safe distance, and Obair had risked his life. Few of the Holder’s cronies were going to celebrate an archer.

  Three caravaners clapped Laurent on the shoulder and led him toward the wine. They seemed intent on making up for the lack of enthusiasm from the rest of the crowd.

  Podor leaped off the table and took Obair’s elbow. “Little Brother, what you have done will be remembered for a long time.”

  Obair shrugged. “It was Baby Boy who killed the thing.”

  “But you took all the risk. I’ll tell father—”

  Altane stopped listening and studied the partygoers around them. To a man, they wore fine silks ornamented with symbols representing the source of their wealth: stalks of wheat and rye for the cropsmen, stars and sails for the ship captains, mountains and wheels for the caravaners. Altane had a wild urge to cudgel one of them and steal their finery, just to wear it once at a party.