Tales from Outer Lands

by Shira Glassman

  Tales from Outer Lands

  By Shira Glassman

  Copyright 2015 by Shira Glassman

  Smashwords Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Prizm Books an imprint of Torquere Press Publishers

  P.O. Box 37, Waldo, AR 71770.

  Tales from Outer Lands Copyright © 2015 by Shira Glassman

  Cover illustration by BSClay

  Published with permission

  ISBN: 978-1-61040-878-3

  www.torquerepress.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. LLC, P.O. Box 37, Waldo, AR 71770

  First Torquere Press Printing: January 2015

  Tales from Outer Lands

  by Shira Glassman

  Dedication:

  In memory of Shippo the Lizard, 2004-2014

  Rivka in Port Saltspray

  With grateful thanks to Nicole, Dr. Caroti, Leigh Alanna, and my mother for their assistance.

  The dark man with the earring shook his head. "I don't care how big of a sword you're carrying; I'm not letting horses on my ship." He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against one of the posts on the dock. Behind him, seagulls swooped through the air in both directions over his vessel as it lay anchored in the water.

  Rivka, who went by Riv and was posing as a man, mostly so that conversations like this weren't even worse than they already were, blurted out, "But what if--?"

  "Look, what's the big deal? Both armies have plenty of money behind them -- whichever side you decide to fight on, they'll give you a horse. Probably a better one than you've got now." The man was looking her up and down, probably judging her based on her tattered pants and scuffed boots. It had been a thin month. This port town had plenty of police of its own and didn't need a mercenary -- one of the reasons she was trying to get to Zembluss as soon as possible, to see if their civil war couldn't solve her money problems.

  "No, it won't," Rivka barked impatiently. "Mine turns into a dragon."

  "It what?"

  "She turns into a dragon."

  "I am not letting a dragon on my ship! What's wrong with you? The other soldiers would never--"

  "What if she flies next to the boat as a dragon and then comes back as a horse from time to time to rest?" Rivka, who didn't often panic, was beginning to run out of options. "That way you wouldn't have a horse--"

  "Ship."

  "What?"

  "It's not a boat, it's a ship."

  Rivka sighed and consciously prevented herself from kicking the man in the groin, because it would have solved nothing. "What if she flew next to the ship--"

  "Why can't she just fly you over the sea the whole way?" The man swatted at a nearby seagull who had decided to alight on the railing and beg for snacks.

  "I--" Rivka didn't quite know how to explain the dragon's mysterious lack of stability. Sometimes her dragon powers just ebbed away without warning. Over the open ocean, that might prove lethal. Unless she also turned out to have surprise dolphin powers. The dragon form had initially been a surprise, so Rivka supposed she might have other hidden forms that hadn't manifested yet.

  "Look, I'm sorry, son," said the man. "I can see how badly you want this. But I think your best option is to wait for another ship."

  But I need the signing bonus tonight, Rivka didn't say. The innkeeper is cheating me and has my horse held hostage in his barn until I pay him for charges he invented. And your port town is corrupt, so the police won't do anything, especially since they see me as competition.

  What she did tell him was, in her own language, to shit in the sea. And then she couldn't help but laugh bitterly, behind the cloth mask that hid the lower half of her face, because there it was, the sea -- right there. Ready for him.

  But not for her, apparently. Or her horse. Dragon. Something.

  Rivka paced the streets of Port Saltspray, only half seeing the shops and people she passed. She had no incentive to hurry back to the inn, instead using the time to rack her brains for ideas for quick cash. What else could she sell? Not her sword. Not only was it her livelihood, but it was one of her only two mementos of the dead man whose love still warmed her heart. Isaac was the first person to see the warrior within her, and he had taught her everything he knew about combat. The wizard had been dead a year and a half, but she still dreamed of him at night. When she woke up clutching the charred fragment of his robes that had survived the fire that claimed him, she was able to steady herself again by taking up the sword he had given her.

  So, selling it was not an option. But neither was giving up Dragon. The horse-dragon-something was her family now, since she'd run away from her mother and uncle and taken to life on the road. She walked past the butcher shop, and it reminded her of the times she and Dragon had happily hunted wild deer together, sharing their catch. Now past the blacksmith, and she smelled iron and thought of battle, and felt the horse's muscles beneath hers. They moved together like a joint beast, reading each other's intentions. A woman was selling pillows on the street, and Rivka thought about how often she had slept outside in the middle of nowhere, curled up against the sleeping dragon. She probably bored her silly with endless bedtime stories about Isaac, but she was also pretty sure she was just a beast who couldn't understand spoken language beyond the ordinary commands that any trained animal did. So Rivka didn't see any reason to discontinue the practice, especially since it helped her keep Isaac with her.

  She didn't have much, then -- a dead man, a live beast, and steel.

  What about prize money? Sometimes there were combat competitions, and at five feet eleven inches, with muscles that bore witness to years of training, and stamina and a body type inherited from the laborer father she'd never known, she knew they were a good option.

  ***

  "Hey!"

  She'd gotten back to the inn and was addressing the room.

  Men looked up from their beers suspiciously, some reaching for their weapons. "No, I'm not a threat," she added. "Is there any prizefighting in Port Saltspray?"

  The men all looked at each other. Some shrugged. Some looked away.

  Rivka got the distinct feeling they had all decided to keep information from unwelcome outsiders. With her wild mane of blonde hair flowing past her shoulders and her guttural accent, she knew she stood out even if plenty of the other men in the room had muscles to rival hers.

  She slammed her butt into a seat in the corner and rested her chin on her hand, staring into space. Maybe it was for the best. With warriors flooding into Port Saltspray from all over the country headed for the boats -- ships -- bound for Zembluss and its civil war, not to mention refugees from Zembluss itself, winning might not have been as much of a guarantee as she'd initially thought.

  A mug of beer slid in her direction across the table, appearing as if by magic and unbidden. Dismissing the ridiculous fantasy that Isaac had somehow awoken from the dead (and found her hundreds of miles away from home, then used his wizard tricks to move beer steins around), she growled, "I can't pay for that," as she turned around.

  It wasn't Isaac -- obviously. Instead, it was a young man with his hair in a braid and a stuffy, buttoned-up dress coat that looked two sizes too big for him. Frilly lace poured out of his collar, and Rivka noticed there were even ruffles coming out from under his cuffs. His gaze was darting around t
he room as if he were afraid to be around so many toughs, and indeed, he could hardly have looked more out of place.

  "Excuse me, sir, but are you a warrior looking for work?" He spoke timidly but with an elegant tone.

  Scholar? Young nobleman? Rivka tried to place him. Obviously, he was here out of his element, and she guessed he'd only come here looking for someone like her. "Why? Who are you?"

  "The name's Waterweed. I heard you asking about prizefighting, and... and I need someone to rescue my fiancée."

  Rivka's eyebrows lifted. Work? Real work? "What's happened?"

  "She's being held by the people of the mountain," explained the young man. "They've promised her hand in marriage to the winner of a... friendly combat." His face contorted with pain as he spoke. "You have to believe me that I'd go and fight for her, even though I don't know what I'm doing -- if only I could."

  With his right hand, he gestured to his left arm. It hung limply by his side.

  "Your arm?" Rivka asked, wiping away sweat that had suddenly formed under her cloth mask. Heat flooded her face, and she thought of Isaac's permanently injured right hand.

  "Accident with a horse," he said shyly, looking down at the table. "Anyway, I'd be the first to be eliminated. But I love her, and she loves me. I swore I'd do anything I could to save her, and if I don't have a left arm, what I do have is money to hire one. You look like you could be twenty arms. What does a left arm cost?"

  Rivka did some math in her head, doubling the innkeeper's ransom on her horse, just in case, and adding a bribe for the next ship captain so she could be sure of getting both her and her horse across the sea to Zembluss. She announced a figure.

  "I'll give you that, and more. Just get her back, safe and sound."

  "When is the contest?" Rivka hoped she didn't sound too desperate.

  "Tomorrow, after midday."

  "And how far away is it?"

  "Just outside the city, up in the hills," said Waterweed. "I can draw you a map."

  "Can't you come with me? She'd probably feel safer if she saw you there."

  Waterweed looked down at the table. "I'd be a liability, really... they'd probably capture me for ransom as soon as they saw me. I'm truly useless in a fight."

  "Rough crowd, then?"

  He nodded and motioned for the barwoman to come over. "Dinner for two, please?"

  Rivka was glad to be fed and seized meat and bread by the handful when the barwoman returned. "Why won't the police help you?"

  Her new client snickered amiably. "You're new here, aren't you? They're outside the city limits, so it doesn't exist to them."

  Rivka snorted. "Someone should clean this place up."

  Waterweed smiled dreamily. "Maybe someday I will. With my wife by my side."

  ***

  Rivka approached the stable, hoping the innkeeper's grooms weren't in as much of a mood for a fight as she was. They looked more alert than she would have liked. "Relax -- I'm just visiting," she muttered, hands out, but they were tense hands. Anyone could have seen that, and she didn't care who did. Let them know that she was cranky.

  Some of the edge went away when she saw Dragon, standing peacefully in one of the stalls. "Hey, girl! Shayna maydeleh, pretty girl. They better be treating you good." Rivka patted her gently.

  The horse couldn't reply, of course, but her big brown eyes looked healthy and she didn't seem agitated. Even allowing for the fact that she was likely soothed by Rivka's presence, her ears relaxed and her head down, her mood didn't seem to indicate any recent mistreatment.

  Still, she was trapped, and that meant Rivka was trapped -- which the warrior hated. Any warrior would.

  In her own language, Rivka told the horse all about the fancy young man at the inn. "I have to go on an adventure without you -- sorry you'll have to miss all the fun!" It would have been awfully convenient to just ride in on a dragon and swoop the poor woman away to safety. But Rivka also figured that in a place as screwed up as Port Saltspray, any such "illegal" attempt to interfere with what was going on might draw ire from the police. If she won the woman fair and square -- ugh, what a disgusting concept, "winning" a human being as a prize -- then nobody would be able to question her or even arrest her.

  "It's a good thing he came along too," she mused as she ran her hand lightly down the horse's nose. "I would have had to hire myself out as day labor, and by the time I earned enough to get to Zembluss, the war would be over!" She thought about her unknown father, the brawny farmhand who had gotten her mother pregnant as a teenager before being run off the estate by her uncle. He'd never been much in her thoughts, her uncle having filled that void even if badly, but now that sharing his life's work loomed over her, he seemed more real than usual.

  The horse named Dragon closed her eyes and leaned her big, soft head against Rivka's chest, tranquil and trusting. Rivka gave her fur gentle scritches as she spoke. "I hope they're feeding you enough. That man in there, Mr. Waterweed, or something, he fed me up good. I made sure he did that, and saved some for the morning, too, so my muscles work like they should."

  She eyed the stall and was relieved to see straw, mash, and even half of an apple. Then she remembered that if the innkeeper wound up keeping Dragon, he would most likely sell her -- leaving him every incentive not to starve the poor creature -- and her stomach grew heavy again. "He was such a funny sight, Dragon, that man," she continued, changing the subject as much to soothe herself as to commune with her horse. "One of his eyes was blue, but the other was brown! I've never seen anyone like that before. I didn't even notice it until I followed him out into the daylight, after we ate together."

  It occurred to Rivka that, with all the man's other unnecessary cosmetic fineries, the blue eye -- or even the brown one -- might have been some kind of artificial adjustment. Could someone do that with eyedrops? The frilly cuffs and collar, the jewel-toned, embroidered coat, and his complete apathy about how much money he was spending all pointed to the social class that paid for ridiculous "beauty enhancements," a great measure of which existed solely to indicate the wearer's wealth.

  "He must think I'm a mess," Rivka murmured, acutely aware of every tear and stain in her clothing. "You don't care if I'm a mess." She kissed the horse on the bridge of her nose, then rested her head against her. "I'll get us out of this, Dragon, I promise."

  Those weren't tears forming. She was watering the horse's nose.

  ***

  Rivka's distress faded easily into determination as she poured herself into her preparation. She walked away from the inn for ten minutes until she found a secluded area behind an overgrown garden fallen into disuse. With her purse, at least full of food now if not money, hanging from a nearby tree, she began the exercises that would help her fully inhabit her own body. Despite all the noise she was making as her feet thumped against the ground and her breath grew loud, she found peace in physical activity. Crunches, bends, and squats were only another language that fit into a lifetime of repetitive prayer.

  Getting her head, and her body, in the game was just as much one of her weapons as the sword she carried. Isaac had always taught her not to get distracted, and she was brilliant at keeping even his memory from invading her combat -- or anything like combat, either.

  The next thing to do was relax, while still keeping her muscles humming. She retrieved her purse and walked back to the built-up area of the city, aware of her skin, her blood, her life force.

  Port Saltspray was sinking into a brilliant blue twilight, and the merry glow of torches illuminated all manner of cacophony in the streets. A group of men were brawling outside a gambling establishment, and a nearby policeman didn't seem to care as he eagerly counted out the coins someone in the next building passed over. Rivka's mouth dropped open slightly behind her mask as she realized she'd wound up in the type of town where the local officials were taking bribes on the street without the least concern for who saw.

  Wait -- of course they wanted people to see. That way, everyone knows who's i
n control.

  Two women in clothing that was both one notch finer and one notch more revealing than Port Saltspray's custom stood near one of the torches, swishing their skirts slightly each time a man passed them. Before she realized what she was thinking, Rivka had silently evaluated their safety (Two together will keep each other safer; neither one's face or body language looks terrified or coerced; their clothing is in good repair, so they have some down time or sufficient money; there's no horrifying background man slinking after them in the shadows.)

  These thoughts were all instant and unbidden, the product of her year as a guard for Madam Shayna up north. There she had learned her multiple fighting styles, paying each of the most talented customers in turn to take her out back and give her training, but there she also first found meaning and her place in the world as her strength and her fascination with combat had defended the women who worked there from all manner of predictable threats.

  She hoped these ladies had a Rivka of their own or were in some small way their own warrior, at least.

  Rivka continued down the streets, people watching and learning the layout so she wouldn't get lost. As she rounded a corner, she heard a distant fiddle. She couldn't make out the tune, but she could tell there was energy in the music.

  Through a crowd of people she saw a tiny street musician fiddling in front of a drinking establishment with a large outdoor courtyard. Some of the patrons were clapping along, or stamping their feet, but many of them were too drunk to get the beat right. The fiddler was doing her best to ignore them, playing the most rousing dance rhythm she could.

  Rivka swayed slightly and nodded in time. It was perfect; the ideal brain food for the following day. Then she tore herself away and continued her walk.

  ***