Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists

by Edited by Adrian Collins

  Tathal leaned close. “And do you know why I need the Grail, pisser-in-the-morning?”

  The caretaker pulled the trigger on the shotgun.

  Nothing happened.

  “I will tell you why,” Tathal continued, ignoring the weapon. “To have the power to confront God. To bring justice for all the sorrow He has wrought on Creation and to make Him pay if it be necessary.”

  “Ye are evil,” the old man spit, fear in his words. “Blasphemous!”

  Leaning in closer still, Tathal squeezed the man’s shoulder. It was bony and thin, like the branch of an ancient tree that had seen far too many winters.

  “Evil is a matter of perspective,” the wizard hissed.

  Tathal let go of the man’s shoulder and walked away then. He could feel the old man staring after him, paralyzed. The Mordred would leave the body there by the gate. Before his end, the caretaker of the fairy glen would know that fairies were real. He might even learn that the Mordred was real, not a figment of Arthurian legend. Tourists would arrive soon and find the body. It would be clear the man did not die from natural causes. The Mordred would not make an example of the old man; murdering such an insignificant creature did not constitute sport for the ancient killer.

  The eastern sky brightened, coming alive. It would be a beautiful day. Tathal would use it to further his quest. If he was right, the people who carried the Grail were no match for him—not as splintered as they were. And certainly no match for the Mordred—who hated them more than any person alive.

  The wizard thought of the caretaker then, undoubtedly already dead. Those who knew the old man—family and friends and quite possibly even strangers—would ask how it could have happened? Why did it have to happen? He had years left, good years. What purpose did his murder serve other than misery?

  Some would even question how God could allow such evil to come to pass.

  The answer came down to a simple question that had also plagued him for centuries.

  How could God allow someone like Tathal Ennis to exist?

  The wizard breathed deep of night’s end even as the yellow dawn brightened in the east. It was a question he’d see answered.

  Though the Heavens fall.

  The Greater of Two Evils

  - The Chronicles of the Exile -

  Marc Turner

  “We’ve got him,” Dutia Beauce Carlyn said as he squinted through his telescope at the distant galleon. “That’s the Firedrifter, that is.” The Firedrifter had been one of Emir Mokinda Char’s ships before it was recently hijacked by the notorious pirate, Revek Swiftsail. “See those gouges on the hull below the starboard cathead?”

  Mazana Creed nodded. Those gouges were clawmarks, courtesy of the bronze dragon that the emir had taken down in the last Dragon Hunt. Mazana had been there to see the scratches inflicted, though alas the dragon had come off worse in the exchange.

  She kept her own glass trained on the Firedrifter. Quarter of a bell ago, the ship had appeared through the rain from behind an island in the Uscan Reach, riding high on a wave of water-magic. Now it was heading straight for Mazana’s galleon, the Zest. Its captain must have mistaken the ship for easy pickings, but perhaps that had something to do with the borrowed gold-and-silver-striped standard of the Goldsmiths’ Guild the Zest was flying.

  “Orders?” Beauce said. “If we heave-to, we might trick Revek into thinking we’re running, and draw him in closer.”

  Mazana shook her head. Revek was sure to recognise the Zest before long, and when he did, he would turn about himself. Better, then, for Mazana to hold her current course. She used her power to raise a wave beneath the Zest. The pirates could still try to flee, obviously, but if they did so they wouldn’t get far. Mazana, as one of the most powerful water-mages in the Storm Isles, could outpace any enemy sorcerer.

  The Firedrifter’s wave subsided, and the galleon sank down on the swell.

  Mazana lowered her telescope. “Hoist my standard,” she said to Beauce. “Let’s show Revek who he’s dealing with.”

  The dutia gave the command, and moments later Mazana’s storm-cloud flag was fluttering disconsolately from the mainmast. That storm cloud told Revek that she was a Storm Lord. Or rather, it told him her father had been one before his death, for Mazana had yet to take Terun’s place on the Storm Council—the body of Storm Lords and other notables that ruled over the Storm Isles.

  A lookout shouted down from the Zest’s main crosstrees. “They’re signalling us, my Lady!”

  Beauce lifted his glass again to inspect the signalling flags the Firedrifter had run out. “It seems Revek wants to talk,” he said.

  “He does?” Mazana replied. “Perhaps he isn’t as smart as I thought.”

  “But only if the talk is on his terms,” Beauce added. He smiled to show his blackweed-stained teeth. “He demands that you join him on the Firedrifter.”

  Mazana raised an eyebrow. Revek was making this too easy. She had meant all along to offer to cross to the pirate’s ship, but had feared that by doing so she would arouse Revek’s suspicions. Now, he would think he had scored the first victory, whereas in reality the victory would be Mazana’s.

  “Well, if he demands it,” she said, “I guess I must do as he says.”

  The Zest swept towards the other ship. Beyond, the islands of the Uscan Reach rose from the waves. The rain had drawn a sullen veil across the land, obscuring the peaks, and blanketing the slopes with mist. To the north Mazana glimpsed the remains of a jetty, whilst farther off was one of the old Uscan Watchtowers, its lower half built from stone, its roof a sagging cloth supported by four lopsided timbers. Mazana knew the Reach well. When she was a girl, her father had brought her here to train her in a water-mage’s arts. They would each have a boat. He would hunt her through the isles, and Mazana would have to use all her wits to evade him by becalming the seas under his craft, or by summoning up waves to carry her own over the smaller islets. If he caught her, he would throw her over the side and make her swim back to their ship. A simple enough task for a water-mage, perhaps. Though it depended on what was sharing the water with you.

  The Reach was no longer the place for such antics. For years it had been the playground of pirates, of which Revek Swiftsail was only the most recent. Two months ago, he had started preying on merchant ships running the eastern sea lanes of the Sabian Sea. And he had shown commendable judgement—to Mazana’s mind, at least—by specifically targeting the emir’s own vessels. Last week, a brigatina carrying dawnstones had been waylaid off the Claw, and before that it had been the Firedrifter and its precious cargo of dragon blood bound for Nain Deep. In a fit of pique, the emir had decided he wanted his ship back, and so he had dispatched three vessels to hunt Revek down. None had returned.

  So the emir had sent Mazana Creed in their place—sent her with the promise of a reward she could not turn down. That was why she had spent the last few days sailing back and forth past the Uscan Reach, waiting for pirates to attack her.

  Was that really so much to ask?

  The Zest advanced to within a stone’s throw of the Firedrifter. Mazana let go her power, and the wave beneath her ship receded with a fizz and a bubble of water. The dregs of it slapped against the Firedrifter’s hull, sending puffs of spray into the air. Along the pirate ship’s starboard rail, two dozen grim-faced men and women were lined up. There were archers in the Firedrifter’s tops, but as yet no one had nocked an arrow to a bowstring, and Mazana had archers of her own standing by in case they tried. She brought the Zest’s bowsprit swinging round so the two ships bumped together, flank to flank. The Firedrifter’s crew threw lines to the soldiers on the Zest, and the vessels were made fast.

  Mazana descended the stairs from the quarterdeck to the main deck. Eight of her soldiers boarded the Firedrifter, then formed two lines like an honour guard. Another soldier offered his hand to Mazana to help her climb to the Zest’s rail, but she ignored it and stepped up unaided. The lower hulls o
f the galleons bulged so much that there was a gap of two armspans between the ships. Mazana sprang across. On the Firedrifter’s rail, she paused for a moment so the pirates were forced to wait on her. Her low-cut dress drew all eyes. To command a space, her father had once told her, one must first command attention. He’d said that on her fifteenth birthday when he had bought her a dress more revealing even than this one, then made her parade before his court as he inspected her from every angle. All the while her mother had watched on, refusing to meet Mazana’s gaze, and silent as was her wont.

  Mazana would not be silent.

  She jumped down to the Firedrifter’s deck and looked around. The ship was unlike any pirate vessel she had ever encountered. The weapons racks were well ordered, the lines neatly tied around the pinheads, and the crew watched Mazana with a hush that bordered on respectful. The Firedrifter had the feel of a military ship. That was hardly surprising, though, considering Revek Swiftsail’s history. Before turning to piracy, he had earned his keep in a far less honourable calling: as an independent captain running these same sea lanes in service to the emir himself.

  If the ship met Mazana’s expectations, then Revek himself did not. He stood watching her from the centre of the main deck. A handspan taller than Mazana, he wore knee-high boots and a plain leather jerkin and trousers. Tied about his right bicep were the dozens of colourful scarfs that were his hallmark. He gave Mazana an appraising look. In his eyes was that same glint of playful mischief she was used to seeing in the eyes of her half-brother, Uriel. Mazana had always admired a man who could stare over the edge of the Abyss without balking. But that didn’t mean she would hesitate to shove him off it when the time came.

  She shifted her gaze to his two companions behind. The first was a well-dressed man with a frown etched onto his forehead. The second was a white-haired woman with a scar that ran down the middle of her face. Whatever weapon strike had made that wound had taken part of her nose and left a lump of scar tissue at the centre of each lip.

  “Welcome aboard,” Revek said to Mazana. “I am Revek Swiftsail.” He offered his hand, and she shook it.

  “Mazana Creed,” she replied.

  “Ah! I know you. You’re the woman who killed her own father so she could take his place as a Storm Lord.”

  It always surprised Mazana when people flung those words at her like they thought they should sting. Whereas surely if she’d found the act so shameful, she wouldn’t have done it in the first place. “If you must know, I haven’t yet been appointed to the Storm Council,” she said. “The child of a Storm Lord has no divine right to succeed their parent. First, they must show that they deserve the honour.” It was only by recruiting the most powerful water-mages, after all, that the Storm Lords could maintain their stranglehold on the empire.

  “So you were sent here to prove your worth, is that it?” Revek spread his arms to take in his crew. “We are nothing more than stepping stones on your path to power and privilege. But then that is all my kind ever are to yours. To reach the top of the mountain, there must first be a mountain to climb, right?”

  “It’s almost as if you think there is no justice in this world,” Mazana said.

  Revek laughed. Mazana could see this was all just a game to him, and would doubtless remain so until the moment that he lost. “Of course there is no justice,” he said. The scarfs about his bicep slipped down, and he pushed them back up his arm. “Every man and woman here once made an honest living from the sea. Every one of them has been bled dry by Storm Lord greed. Each year, you raise the Levy on the cities, and who do you think ends up footing the bill? Not the leaders of those cities, that’s for sure. Instead it is the merchants, the sailors, and the fishermen who can least afford it. And what do the Storm Lords give in exchange? Nothing!” Revek smiled. “Strange, isn’t it? The emir is a bigger thief than I will ever be, yet it is me who is called the pirate.”

  Mazana glanced from Revek to his companions behind. Clearly they enjoyed his moralising no more than she did, for the dandy’s frown had deepened, whilst White Hair was feigning an interest in her fingernails. To Revek, Mazana said, “And so to prove what a terrible thing stealing is, you thought you would...steal?”

  “It isn’t a crime to take back from the emir what he has taken from us.”

  “Tell that to the men you killed when you attacked his ships.”

  “Their blood is on his hands, not ours.” Revek’s smile stretched. “As soon yours will be.”

  As threats went, that was probably the most gracious Mazana had ever received. Just because you were intent on killing someone, though, didn’t mean you had to be uncivil about it. “And if you should survive today, what then?” Mazana asked. “You think the emir will shrug, and say ‘No matter’, and let you go back to screwing him up the arse?” That drew a surprised murmur from Revek’s crew, but Mazana kept her gaze on their captain. “The noble Mokinda Char will never let this slide. When you attacked his ships, you stole something more valuable than his money; you stole his reputation.” She raised her voice to carry. “Think about it. The Storm Lords are just six water-mages, yet they control an empire of hundreds of thousands. They rule as much by legend as by strength. If a lowly pirate is seen to stand against them, what message does that send to their subjects? The Storm Lords must destroy you. Their very existence depends on it.”

  Her words were met by silence. Revek looked undaunted, but judging by the dandy’s grimace, he at least had realised the folly of inviting Mazana onto his ship where her words would be heard by his crew. She twisted the knife deeper. “This is not a fight you can win. My sadly departed father was a Storm Lord, and I am stronger than he was.” She looked at the faces around her. “There is only one way you will live out the next bell. The emir has put a bounty on each of your heads, but the task he gave me was to bring in Revek, and Revek alone. Hand him over, and you may go free. I give you my word.”

  Revek’s wave was dismissive. “I’ve heard enough,” he said. “There will be no surrender. Return to your ship, and let the hunt commence.”

  Mazana did not argue. She had planted the seed of doubt among Revek’s crew, now she had to give it time to sprout. “So what happens next?” she asked. “Do I close my eyes and count to a hundred?”

  “I was thinking of a thousand, myself.”

  * * *

  From the quarterdeck of the Zest, Mazana watched the Firedrifter speed away on a wave of water-magic that was almost as tall as anything she could conjure up. There was no way a single sorcerer among the pirates could be responsible for that wave, because anyone so powerful would surely have found better things to do with their life than put their head on a Storm Lord block. Most likely it was three mages, or even four, that she faced. Together, those mages steered the Firedrifter tight to the shore of the nearest island as the coastline curved east. They would want to break line of sight with the Zest as swiftly as possible. Because while Mazana was able to see the wave carrying the ship, she could use part of her power to neutralise it and the rest of her strength to summon up a smaller wave under the Zest.

  The rain was getting heavier, drumming a beat on the deck.

  “Remind me,” Beauce said from beside her. “A hundred comes just after forty-nine, right?”

  “Usually,” Mazana agreed. “But I think we’ll give them the full count this time. We need them to believe I am a woman of my word.”

  The Firedrifter faded into the haze over the sea, becoming as spectral as a ghost ship. It slid behind the cover of the trees that grew right to the waterline.

  Mazana waited another ten heartbeats. Her hair was plastered to her scalp, her dress to her body.

  Then she released her power, and a wave roared into life beneath the Zest’s bow. It lifted the ship up and forwards with an abruptness that made Mazana’s stomach flip. She and Beauce had been gripping the binnacle in readiness, but some of the soldiers on the main deck were caught off guard. They were thrown from their
feet into grumbling piles.

  Beauce’s lips quirked. “That never gets old, does it?”

  And the hunt was on.

  Within moments, the Firedrifter came into view again—first the tip of its main yard, then its starboard rail, then its mizzen mast. Intent on dispelling the wave beneath the galleon, Mazana threw her will against the power of the Firedrifter’s mages. The wave beneath the ship receded. Got you. As that happened, though, the pirate ship veered hard to port, heading for a waterway between two islets. Its momentum carried it into the strait and out of Mazana’s view.

  The Zest gave chase.

  As the ship entered the channel, Mazana saw the Firedrifter a hundred lengths distant. The waterway it travelled along was bounded to the north by a sheer rock face, and to the south by a scattering of tree-covered islets. The channel curled west, and the Firedrifter, hugging the inner bend, broke Mazana’s line of sight again. As it did so, a horn call sounded from its decks. A signal, presumably, but to whom?

  Perhaps to no one. Perhaps it was only a ploy to trick Mazana into excessive caution. And to her mind any caution was excessive.

  Beauce spat blackweed to the deck. “This stinks of a trap,” he said.

  “Maybe.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Mazana looked at him askance. “We spring the trap.”

  “Of course we do,” the dutia muttered.

  The Zest entered the channel, following the ribbon of froth left in the Firedrifter’s wake. As Mazana’s ship advanced, the edge of the sorcerous wave carrying it broke against the northern bluff. Another horn call rang out, echoing off the cliff. Beauce’s gaze twitched every way, seeking trouble.

  “There!” he said, pointing ahead and to the right.

  Mazana had already spotted them: ten archers gathered at the brink of the eastern bluff, ready to rain arrows down on the Zest. She considered. If she steered the ship closer to the cliff, that would force the bowmen to lean out precariously over the channel. But it would also allow them to push boulders—