by Adam Bennett
Using her long sleeves to protect her hands, Dari lifted the globe off the column. She turned around and Sven saw her smile. She stepped out of the small room—then froze in mid-step, realizing—just as Sven did at that very moment—that the larger chamber was not empty. The globe’s golden light revealed the floor to be painted with dozens of circles and stars. Upon the symbols lining the edge of the chamber stood dragons, beastmen with curved horns atop their heads, deformed cats with huge fangs, and giant scorpions with the heads of lions. Sven recognized the chamber for what it was—a magic monsters game board. A much, much larger version of the board in the White Swan tavern. He could imagine Magus Xandor positioning his sorcery-created chimeras on the board and directing them to do battle against each other as he refined his strategies in preparation for the annual tournament.
Sven heard an odd whispering, as if many voices were talking at once, but he couldn’t tell there they were coming from. He was about to call to Dari when he detected movement out the corner of his eye. One of the lion heads had turned, he was sure, so it was now looking directly at him.
Rolf skidded to a halt in the corridor, wide-eyed and panting for breath. “He’s dead.”
Sven stared at him, not understanding. “Who’s dead?”
“Skullsmiter. They killed him.”
“Who killed him?”
“The guards, you idiot! They cut him to pieces. They didn’t even break step.”
Which either meant Skullsmiter had been a loudmouthed braggart, or the men who’d killed him were exceptional fighters.
“Where does that leave us?” Sven said, fighting down his panic.
“In trouble, up to our necks.”
Another creature with wings shifted position. Were the chimeras waking up? Were their movements random or were they responding to the presence of intruders?
Dari ran across the board and joined them. “Empty,” she said.
Rolf gaped at her. “What do you mean, empty? What’s empty?”
The heavy beat of footsteps became louder again as the guards closed in on them. Sven couldn’t tell which direction they were approaching from.
“All the rooms are empty. Magus Xandor’s treasure isn’t here. He must have taken his gold with him to the capital to wager on the games.”
Sven wondered about the globe. Did it have value?
Rolf scowled at her. “By the gods, girl, if you’re lying—”
Sven had never seen a Northmark mercenary before. He caught a glimpse of studded black leather armour, a thick blond beard, and ice-blue eyes that held no hint of mercy. The mercenary exploded out of one of the darkened corridors, bellowing like an enraged bull, his sword aimed at Rolf. Without even thinking, Sven shouldered the warrior off-balance so he slammed into the opposite wall at full speed. The crash was horrendous. The warrior slid down, stunned. Sven thrust the point of his sword into the man’s neck.
“Sven?” Rolf wore a surprised expression. His knees suddenly gave way. Sven caught him and lowered him to the floor, not sure what was wrong with him. His cousin stared at the ceiling, his lips working, forming silent words.
“Rolf, can you hear me? Rolf!” But Rolf’s eyes closed and he wasn’t breathing. Sven stared at the gleaming wetness on his hands and realized the truth of it. The mercenary’s sword hadn’t missed after all.
“Your cousin is dead. We must flee, Sven Wheatfarmer,” Dari said. When he didn’t reply she placed her hand upon his shoulder. “If we stay, they will kill us.”
More footsteps reached them. Armour and weapons scraped against walls. It sounded as if the Northmark mercenaries intended to surround them. Rolf’s estimate had been wrong, badly wrong. There were many more than just four.
Sven got to his feet. “I’m not leaving,” he told Dari.
“Rolf is no longer with us. This is just the vessel his spirit lived in.”
Sven swallowed hard, knowing she was right. But his uncle had told them the King’s Guard never left its dead behind. It was a matter of honour, of brotherhood. All of which had to mean something, he told himself as he gazed at Rolf’s still face. “Go,” he said. “I’ll delay them as long as I can.”
“Don’t be a fool. Come with me, before it’s too late.”
Sven shook his head. “I cannot.” He didn’t know if she understood but he thought he saw sympathy in her eyes. Without another word she turned and dashed down one of the corridors. She disappeared into the maze, became one with the darkness. Sven hoped the Shadow would elude her pursuers.
He drew a deep breath as several half-seen shapes resolved themselves into grim-faced men dressed in black armour. Sven didn’t know which way to turn, there were so many of them. He stood over Rolf’s body and moved his sword left and right, ready for their attack. They’d cut him down, no doubt about that, but he’d try to give them something to remember him by. Perhaps his father might have approved of this, at least.
He counted their numbers—ten, eleven, twelve of them. Gods above and below, he didn’t stand a chance. Why Magus Xandor should leave such a heavy guard in his house when he was absent mystified him, especially as, if Dari was right, there was no treasure here. Then again, he’d glimpsed the glowing object in the hidden room. A suspicious thought struck him: Was that the reason she had agreed to join them?
The Northmark mercenaries didn’t seem to be in any hurry now that they knew they’d trapped him. They could come at him from any side and he’d be dead before he knew it. He remembered how quickly Rolf had died, here one heartbeat, gone the next. All he could hope for was a similar swift end.
He looked at each of the mercenaries in turn. “Which of you wants to die first?” he said, but none of them lunged at him, offering him the chance of a quick death. They were smiling. He amused them. They didn’t even regard him as a real warrior.
Sven gave the dead mercenary’s boot a kick.
“Come and join your friend. If you have the courage to face me, that is.”
Their smiles vanished. They looked to the tallest among them, who Sven guessed must be their leader. This warrior stepped forward. He towered over Sven. The others began to chant a name, over and over: “Ulf, Ulf, Ulf.”
Ulf bared his teeth in a terrible grin. “I will cut you into little pieces for your insult, boy.” He raised his sword and advanced on Sven. But he didn’t get halfway before something whipped out of the dark corridor opening behind him and struck him so hard his entire body shook. His expression changed to one of complete surprise. Whatever it was lifted him up off the floor so he dangled in mid-air, groaning. Ulf was still alive, but only for a moment longer. His sword clattered to the floor, his head slumped and his body went limp.
The Northmark mercenaries grouped together, their swords bristling like a forest of steel. Ulf slipped off the thing that was holding him aloft and sprawled, lifeless. The chimera that had killed him scuttled forward, its insect feet clicking on the floor. Flickering torchlight revealed the huge lion’s head upon the body of a scorpion. Its sting had punched through Ulf’s armour as if it was made of parchment.
The tail whipped around again and its barbed end slammed into the wall where Sven had been standing—but, forewarned by the manner of Ulf’s death, Sven had leapt to one side, avoiding the deadly strike. He thrust his sword into the chimera’s furry chest. It tried to claw at him but Sven had released his sword and instantly ducked back out of range. The chimera flailed, making a terrible noise that was a mixture of pain and rage, but it was far from dead. His thrust must have missed its heart.
Sven snatched up Ulf’s fallen sword. It was a heavier blade than he was used to and he needed both hands to wield it. Its edges were serrated and the point looked sharp. A brutal killing weapon. The chimera rushed at him, its scorpion tail poised to strike. Fear threatened to turn Sven’s bowels to water, but he shouted a wordless challenge and the lion head snapped forward. As it did so, he brought the sword up and drove it into the beast’s hellish mouth. Rows of fangs closed upon the ste
el, striking sparks and tearing the weapon out of his hands. Once again he had to leap out of the way as the chimera blundered past him and into the wall, cracking the brickwork.
He expected it to round on him instantly and kill him, but instead the chimera collapsed, its legs splaying wide. The point of Ulf’s sword must have been driven deeper by the collision with the wall and found its brain. Talk about luck! Sven couldn’t have timed that if he’d tried.
The Northmark mercenaries looked at each other, as if not sure what to do next. Had this changed anything? Sven doubted it. He stepped up to the dead chimera, braced his boot against its chest and worked his sword free. He did likewise with Ulf’s sword, dragging it from the creature’s open mouth. The Northmark steel came away more easily. He faced the mercenaries, but realized at once that he couldn’t possibly wield Ulf’s sword with only one hand. He placed the weapon upon Ulf’s chest and shifted the dead mercenary’s hands so they rested upon the blade and kept it in place. His uncle would have nodded approval. Perhaps his father would have, too. Sven resumed his former position beside Rolf. He wanted to throw up, wanted it to all be over and done with. Why wouldn’t they attack him?
They lowered their swords. One said, “Your courage does your companion honour. We will not kill you if you leave now and vow to never return.”
“He was my cousin,” Sven said. “His name was Rolf. I am not leaving without him.” The King’s Guard never leaves its dead behind. That was what his uncle had taught them. He knew that Rolf, presented with the same choice, would have done exactly the same for him. They’d been closer than cousins. Now Rolf was dead and Sven hadn’t been able to do a thing to prevent it. Here was his only chance to make amends.
“You would die for a corpse?”
“I told you, we were blood kin. That means something to us, even if it doesn’t mean anything to you.” There, he’d made his speech. What else was there to be said?
He steeled himself for a death that never came.
In ones and twos, without a word spoken, the mercenaries turned from him and retreated down the corridors, back the way they’d come. Four of them dragged Ulf and the other dead mercenary away with them. They ignored Rolf. Sven didn’t relax for an instant and didn’t take his gaze off them.
The mercenary who’d spoken made to turn away, but Sven stopped him with a question: “Why?”
The man looked back at Sven over his shoulder. “Any man who would stand and die for a fallen comrade’s honour is worthy of our respect.” He paused, then added, “Tell others who might be foolish enough to seek our master’s wealth that they will never leave this house alive. Tell them we are waiting.”
He departed, leaving Sven alone with Rolf. The mercenaries’ footsteps faded, leaving only silence behind.
Sven came to accept that it wasn’t a trick after all. He sheathed his sword, bent and lifted up his cousin, settling him over his shoulder. He made his way through the maze of corridors and junctions, following his instincts—and a hint of air movement that might, if he was lucky, come from the door they’d entered through. He didn’t see or hear anything else of the Northmark mercenaries, or any of the other chimeras, thank the gods.
He passed Fenris Skullsmiter’s corpse and knew he was proceeding in the right direction. He hoped the warrior had found his way to the afterlife.
A short while later he found the outside door. It still lay open. Glittering stars beckoned to him.
As soon as he passed outside into the garden, he heard the whirr and click of elven lock mechanisms. The door swung shut behind him. He wondered whether the locks would be changed—or whether swift death would be waiting for anyone who attempted to open the door again.
There was no sign of Dari. Had she found her way out? He hoped so. He carried Rolf to the wall and looked for a tree suitable for climbing. But then he noticed the tall iron gates were ajar. He sent silent thanks to Dari and slipped out this way.
He saw no one else as he moved through the quiet streets. He carried Rolf up the hill to the temple that overlooked the town, and laid him on the steps outside the door. Sven fished into his pocket for a coin and placed it under Rolf’s tongue to pay the priests for service and burial. This was what they’d agreed, if either of them came to grief during their adventures. But Sven had never once expected Rolf to die.
He slept under the stars that night, and dreamt of Dari. In the dream she smiled as she bent over him and stroked his brow tenderly and told him her true name was Leurandariel. He asked her, What was it that you took from the secret room? And she replied, Something that was stolen from the Forest Folk an age ago, and which is now returned to its rightful place. Sleep now. She touched his head and he slept.
In the morning he awoke and remembered the dream. It felt so real that he didn’t question whether it had actually happened. He washed in a stream, scrubbing his clothes as best he could, then returned to the White Swan, which was now open for the breakfast trade. The games board had been cleared and brushed clean of chimera smear, ready for the evening’s activities. He sat at the same table where he and Rolf had sat only last night. Brunhilde came to the table and stared at him with wide eyes, as if startled by his appearance. He ordered porridge and said nothing else. When she brought him the bowl he ate slowly, not even tasting it. When he was finished, she sat down beside him.
“Where is Rolf?” she asked. The tremble in her voice suggested she already suspected the worst. He supposed his appearance and the bloodstains on his clothing must have given her a clue. He’d been dreading this question, but he’d not come here just to fill his empty stomach.
“Rolf won’t be coming back,” he said.
Brunhilde sat with her head bowed and her shoulders heaving. Sven hesitated, then put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, offering what little comfort he could. She leaned into him, weeping openly, her hot tears soaking through his shirt. Sven closed his eyes and sighed. Brunhilde wasn’t the only one who needed comforting.
The lady does not love you now, but she will, Dari’s voice said.
He opened his eyes and looked around, but Dari wasn’t there.
Something on the table caught his eye. He picked the object up by its chain and stared in wonder at the seven water signs of the High Astronomicon. It was Fenris Skullsmiter’s silver amulet. Dari must have taken it from his body on the way out.
“W-what is that?” Brunhilde asked, making an effort to wipe away her tears.
“A gift,” Sven told her. “A gift from a friend.”
Queen Bee
Sam M. Phillips
There is no light in my room, a bleak hole in which I slumber without true rest. As I wake up I feel the aches enter my bones immediately—or have they never left? I’ve lost count now of how long it is I have been without feeding. Judging by the fog in my brain, and how distant I feel from comfort, then it must have been quite a while, weeks even. I shouldn’t be doing this to myself, but I can’t help it. I’m trying to starve the curse out of my body—but I know this is impossible.
Never cross a witch—seems like good life advice. Who follows good advice anyway? Knowing something is bad for you just makes it more tempting, and there is little in this world more tempting than magic. Limitless power, infinite potential, now that’s a proposition I couldn’t resist. Now things are worse than they were before this all happened. Now I don’t even have power over myself anymore. I was used to hunger, sure, who in the Realms isn’t? Perhaps the wizard kings high in their crystal towers, but not me, and not you; we’re just bugs in a spawning pool infesting the wastelands.
Bugs…
I get up and they scatter before me in terror. They know who the queen bee is here. Pheromones don’t lie, and as much as I’d like it not to be so, I am what I am now. There’s no going back. Well, maybe there is, but to do so I’ll have to embrace what I’ve become, and that feels like a fate worse than death.
Stretching, I try to clear the pains from my limbs. My head feels fuzzy
and my eyesight blurred. I stumble across the room, tortured floorboards screeching under my feet. Splashing my face with some dirty water from a cracked bowl does little to revive me. I mumble a curse to myself, which just compounds my situation.
Furry green lights dance before my eyes, but do little else. I feel some of the terror recede from my mind at the sight of them though—knowing there is magic in the world gives me hope. I fumble about for the pisspot, sloshing its contents in my half-blindness. I squat down and relieve myself, the hot piss stinging sharply. When will this be over?
Knowing what I must do and actually doing it are realities with a yawning abyss between them. I can’t give up now, so much suffering for nothing. I can’t live with the curse, and yet I’ll probably die if I don’t feed soon. Perhaps death will be better, perhaps not. I fear the abyss, and I fear judgement even worse. Death isn’t kind to those who seek magical power.
I drink some stale wine and gag on the pungent grapes rotting in the dregs. There is mouldy bread, but that is nothing, and certainly won’t touch my hunger. Blood and flesh flash before my eyes and I nearly go mad with my need. I see the witch, her blonde hair snaking around her black wax face, twisting in a grimace of hate and reprimand. Her words echo in my head without meaning, some dead language, the bane of the Realms, nearly extinguished by the scourging influence of the wizard kings. To think I wished to learn such dread speech. It would have made me powerful, but the source of that power would have made me even more of a monster than I am now.
Monster?
I go and look in the smashed mirror, a distorted reflection hidden by bad sight and thick cracks. It’s just as well—the beautiful young woman I once was wouldn’t be able to stand to see me now, and certainly wouldn’t want to see me later, when I feed.
