Outside, the mob cheered.
The girl stirred beside Harric. She placed something small and shiny on the table. A tiny blade, like a good purse knife. Saffron paint ran in lines down her cheeks. “That was for Iras,” she said, in a small voice. “Or for me.” She spoke in a decidedly East Isle accent, like Harric’s.
He studied her, trying to see the person beneath the paint.
She looked down at her ridiculous dress, and in that act shrank back to a barely budding girl of fourteen. “What should I do?” she whispered.
“You may return home, if you wish it,” said Bettis, stepping forward. “Or you may come with me. I have need of a maid.”
The girl bowed her head. “My lady . . . I thank you.”
“What is your name, girl?”
“Mara, my lady.”
Bettis turned to follow the mob. “Come, Mara. You should see this.”
Mara began to shake. Her face screwed into a mask of fear. “But . . . my sister. They said they’d steal her if there was trouble, and now they’ll blame me and—”
Bettis held up a hand for silence. “Then we shall send for her as well. I will keep you both as long as you wish. I will teach you to live as a woman ought. In return, you can teach me Iras’ tricks.”
Mara’s eyes widened, and she giggled. “Yes, my lady!” With a quick squeeze of Harric’s hand, she hurried to the lady and bowed. The lady lifted her to her feet and embraced her with both arms.
As she held the girl, Bettis regarded Harric. “You seemed familiar tonight, but it wasn’t until you revealed your blood rank that I understood why. Your mother was the Lady Chasia. Yes. By your look I see it is so. I knew her in court. Everyone knew her. Did you know that she was a great sorceress for the Queen, before . . .”
“Before she lost her mind and cursed the things she loved?” He gave a wry smile. “I know.”
A shadow passed behind her eyes. “Just so.”
Mara stepped away from her new patroness to gaze at Harric. She murmured something.
“Speak up,” said Bettis.
“Thank you,” said Mara.
Harric smiled. “It was truly my pleasure. Live fully for me.”
Mara nodded, eyes wet and earnest.
“Farewell, son of Chasia,” said Bettis, as she led the girl through the door. “May the gods take note of your deed this night.”
Harric made no reply, for fear of cracking his voice.
Alone in the smoky hall, he took a deep breath and let it out. The ferryman’s words echoed through his mind: Not if ye can get the attention of a god. . . . “Well,” he muttered. “Did I?” He saw no omen. No portent in the hall. Surely there would be a sign? His chest ached with loss and emptiness.
Just a bottle dream. Fate doesn’t work that way.
He shoved the table from him, and stood. Grabbing enough coin to pay for the wine at his wake, he stumbled from the hall into the deepening night.
Across the yard at the cliff’s edge, the mob still floated Iras on upstretched arms. They’d been toying with him, passing him back and forth along the edge of the cliff, until he raged with impotent defiance.
Harric crossed to the inn and steadied himself against a door. He found himself panting, unable to get enough air in his lungs.
The mob roared in triumph, and a falling cry pierced the night.
Lord Iras was flying.
When the mob dispersed, Harric lingered in the dark beside the inn, waiting for breathing and heart to settle.
Someone stirred in the darkness. A moment later, the funeral stink of roses tickled Harric’s nostrils, and he sensed the presence of the noseless ferryman.
“Off to your wake!” said he, slurring, and swaying over his feet. A grin shone pale in the night. “Why you suppose they call it a wake, anyhow? ’Cause it wakes ye? ’Cause it wakes the gods?” He planted a hard finger in Harric’s chest. “You don’t need a wake.”
“Tell that to everyone waiting inside.” Harric jerked open the door to the inn, spilling yellow lamplight into the yard. He gestured for the man to precede him inside. “Time for the drink I promised.”
The ferryman regarded him from the gloom. In the half-light from the doorway, he seemed more skeleton than ever. He doffed his cap, baring a bald pate as pale as ivory. “Not today, thankee. I have my fare, tonight. Another soul waits at the river.”
Hairs pricked on the back of Harric’s neck.
The ferryman returned the cap to his head, and the shade of its brim made his sunken eyes like the pits of a skull. “Ye won my attention, bastard, and ye won another day. Tomorrow we drink. Look for me at sunset.”
The ferryman bowed deep and retreated into the darkness, where he vanished.
Harric stared after. Weakness unstrung his knees, and he clung to the inn door.
A day.
One day.
Deep in his belly he felt the light rising like laughter. He laughed until tears streaked his face and strength returned to his knees. Still chuckling, he entered the bar to roars of applause, and paid for all the wine in the house.
Swords Like Lightning,
Hooves Like Thunder
written by
K. D. Julicher
illustrated by
ELDAR ZAKIROV
* * *
about the author
K. D. Julicher has wanted to write fantasy novels since she read The Hobbit as an eight year old. Having acquired a master’s degree in computer science, she found it took her years to kick the habit of ending every sentence with a semicolon.
In 2010 K. D. decided to take her childhood dream and lifelong hobby to the next level and pursue a professional writing career. She switched from scribbling only during NaNoWriMo to year-round writing, plotting, and editing. The story she wrote that year ended up being the inspiration for an entire fantasy world which includes this story along with the Baen Fantasy Adventure Award winner in 2014.
Her husband got passionate about editing her work when he discovered how to apply the skills for writing engineering specifications to crafting story structure. Now they collaborate on novels while raising their daughter. After living in six widely scattered states in the last twelve years, K. D. is now hoping to put down some roots in the sublime desolation of Nevada and write more stories about bears.
about the illustrator
At sixteen, Eldar felt electrified after seeing a collection of American and British science fiction and fantasy drawings in his homeland of Uzbekistan. Suddenly, drawing, painting and art history all combined into a new passion for speculative fiction illustration.
Eldar credits the rich art throughout history as his inspiration—from Renaissance, Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century surrealists to the contemporary fantasy illustrations of today.
Eldar won the Grand Prize Golden Brush Award of the Illustrators of the Future Contest in 2006, and his art was featured in Writers of the Future Volume 22.
He has since expanded his technical skills and client base. He’s working for prestigious magazines, museums and game design firms in Australia, Russia and the United States, including National Geographic. He’s been written up in international media, including a feature article in the New York Times.
Swords Like Lightning,
Hooves Like Thunder
When her horse stumbled near the edge of the bluff, Yvina leaned against its neck and prayed that the animal had merely missed its footing. The roan took another two steps and then faltered. Yvina glanced over her shoulder. Her pursuers rode along the treeless top of the last ridge, maybe two miles back. Too far below her, the river glinted in the early morning sun. She was exhausted from riding all night. She hadn’t eaten in a day, and her tongue was thick with thirst. Acrid fear and horse-sweat clogged her nostrils. She’d never make it but had to try. She urged the horse on. It’s no use,
her bear whispered inside her mind. He’s spent.
Can you give more of your strength to him? she asked. She’d already shared the bear’s power with the horse once. It was a trick reserved for dire straits, where the risk of death was stronger than the risk of having your soul come unraveled.
His tendon is strained, the bear said. I don’t have enough strength for that.
Then share mine, she urged.
If I drained us both, it might work, but then we’ll be helpless, the bear warned.
Then she’d save her strength and the bear’s for when her pursuers caught up. She slid off the horse onto the rocky ground, avoiding a clump of spiky grass. At least she had the short sword she’d taken off one of the Methlan warriors earlier. She wasn’t going to let them take her alive. And she wasn’t going to die easily. The horse took three steps before collapsing. Yvina spared a thought for the beast but there was nothing she could do for it.
She scrambled down the steep slope, her shift catching on the prickly bushes, heading toward the river. Even if she reached it and crossed, she wouldn’t be safe. Her brother’s army lay miles away. This was such a stupid way to die, after everything she and Aradon had been through. If only Aradon had listened to her warnings. Her brother was a fool. Now he was a fool in chains, surrounded by enough Methlan warriors to defeat even him. Was Aradon even still alive?
Worry about us first, her bear said.
I wish you had teeth and claws to help me fight, Yvina said. Now she was halfway down the steep slope. The scent of water made her parched mouth tingle. Her feet kept up a steady trot. Her eyes scanned the rocky hillside for safe footing. She could try going straight down the slope, while the riders would have to pick a path their horses could manage.
I’ll give you everything I can, the bear promised. It was a comforting presence in her head. We’ll make them pay.
Now that she was over the edge of the bluff, she couldn’t see her pursuers, but they were back there. They wouldn’t give up now, with their quarry so close. With luck, and help from the bear spirit, she might be able to kill most of them. If only she wore her armor. It lay safely back at the war camp, useless to her now. She wore a torn shift and boots much too large for her feet; she’d taken them off the same dead man as the sword. Her matted hair clung to her face and shoulders the way the seaweed had clung to her the night her father drowned, twenty years ago and three hundred leagues from here. She hadn’t thought about that in years. Why now? Because she was going to join him soon?
We’re not going to die, her bear said. Look, we’re almost to the river.
Scrawny trees dotted the bank. The river was shallow here. It boiled and raged past teeth of rocks. Mountain-fed, it would be icy cold, even now at the height of summer. Her dry mouth longed for a cool drink. If she could reach the water, at least she wouldn’t die thirsty.
She heard a distant thump. The bear sharpened her ears. Hoofbeats. She scrambled down the slope. When she heard the hoofbeats pause, she turned.
A band of Methlan warriors sat on their horses at the top of the bluff. They wore sturdy boots and leather pants, but their chests, tanned nearly as dark as their horses, were bare. Several stood in their stirrups to see her better. One pointed, and they rode straight for her, nearly at a gallop, down the steep slope she’d have sworn no horse could manage. She stood mesmerized for a half-dozen heartbeats as the horses surged over rocks and clattered down. She’d heard of Methlan riding skill, but this was beyond simple boasts. Their bare chests gleamed, covered in whirls of dark paint. Their blond hair streamed out behind them like ribbons. Their high-walled saddles were as gaudy as the bright sashes at their waists. Silver hoops pierced the rim of their ears, each man wearing at least three rings, and one with so many his ear looked mail-clad.
Run, her bear shouted. Yvina sprinted across the rocky strand and splashed into the river. She gasped as the water instantly numbed her toes. It tugged at her ankles. She scooped water to her lips. One handful barely wetted her mouth. Her shift quickly dampened from the splashing. She picked her way across, taking another drink when she could. The smooth stones of the riverbed shifted with every step. One foot placed wrong and she’d be swept away.
She slipped, and caught herself, arms flailing wildly. One knee dipped into the water. Her soaked shift clung to her, making her shiver despite the hot sun. Behind her, she heard the first rider splash into the water.
She stood in the middle of the river now. There was almost an island here, though it didn’t quite hump out of the water. On the far shore, the land rose up gently, easy ground for her pursuers’ horses. She had nowhere to run. They’d catch her almost as soon as she left the river. She changed her sword to her good hand and turned.
The riders had spread out. Four of them started across the river. Two others sat on their horses at the water’s edge, and a couple had turned to greet a straggler coming down the slope. The closest riders had drawn swords from the scabbards on their saddles, leaving their bows untouched. They were grinning. “Come back with us,” the closest rider said in heavily-accented Aradori. War paint covered his chest with bold designs. “We won’t hurt you.”
“Well, not much,” his companion said in Methlan. They both laughed.
“I thought the Methlan were noble warriors,” she mocked. They gaped at her. Probably they hadn’t expected her to speak their language. “Yet now I find you are dogs, not fit to be called men.”
“Dogs?” the leader spat. “Watch your mouth, bitch. You can come with us or you can die here.”
“I prefer to die,” she retorted, and set herself. The four riders spread out to surround her. Now, my heart! she said, and the bear leaped inside her.
She sprang forward. Her feet found their places as surely as a mountain goat’s. The first rider’s mouth barely opened, to speak or merely in shock she didn’t know, before she reached him. He started to bring his longer sword down, far too slowly. She slashed, cutting his saddle-straps. The horse reared and he slid sideways toward the water. Yvina ducked under the flailing hooves. She could have reached up and touched them without danger. That was the bear in her, speeding her movements far beyond what an ordinary human could match.
Before the rider hit the water, she plunged her sword into his chest between the whorls of paint, then snatched one of his blades as it fell and spun off to the next rider.
This one had no more time to react. She swung her new sword hard with both hands. It bit deep into his thigh and sliced across his horse’s neck. Horse and rider fell in a spray of blood. For a moment, they were a pile of thrashing limbs, all tangled together, and then the water caught them and swept them away.
Two down, but she could smell the rest closing on her. Yvina turned. The other two riders came together. They eyed her nervously. One opened his mouth. Not giving him time to speak, Yvina scooped a rock from the water. She wasn’t cold anymore. The heat in her blood was a roaring fire. Yvina hurled the rock at one man’s face. It smashed his nose in with a sickening crack. He cried out, raising his hands to his face. She sprang toward him before he could react. A thrust upward with her sword, and he toppled into the water.
The smell of blood grew overwhelming. Every heartbeat flooded her veins with rage. A distant part of her mind warned dispassionately that this was how bear warriors lost themselves in fights.
Yvina ignored the warning. She had to focus on winning. But oh, it felt so good to be alive. Her sword felt like an extension of her arm. Her feet danced in the too-large shoes.
One enemy remained in reach, staring at her in horror. His horse shied back. He started to turn. Yvina, snarling, grabbed at his leg. He tried to bring his sword into play, but she simply yanked him from his saddle.
Yvina screamed, all the rage and fear and frustration of the last day coming in a wordless roar, and the man landed on his back in the river. His horse whinnied and danced away.
Yvina swung. Blood and water arced up, spattering her, and her enemy went still.
We’re not done, the bear warned. Her rage ebbed away, leaving her panting, aware once more of the water freezing her feet and calves. Her shift hung off one shoulder. She bent and picked up the short sword from the warrior she’d just killed. Now she held a pair of Methlan blades, one short, one long, just like their warriors used. She turned to face her enemies.
They weren’t paying her much mind. Yvina frowned. They milled around in a knot, surrounding one man. As she watched, they suddenly broke off from the lone rider and rode away along the river. In the wrong direction, too; they headed south, not north after the rest of the horde. What was going on?
The horses she hadn’t killed were picking their way out of the river, unfortunately on the same shore as the last Methlan. He sat astride his horse, studying her. He wore an amused smile, and his swords still rested in their saddle-scabbards.
Yvina stood watching until she began to shiver. He was only one man. She could take him. But something about his manner unsettled her.
“Come out of the river before you die of cold,” he called.
Yvina shook her head. “The water’s lovely,” she said. “Why not join me?”
The man laughed. Unlike the earlier men, there was no cruelty in it. He held up his empty hands. “I wish to parley with you, Lady Yvina.”
“A kind offer, but I think I’ll be going,” she shouted.
“That’s the wrong direction,” the man said. “Your brother is the other way.”
“His army is this way,” she said. Why let him nettle her? She needed to get away. Yvina started across the river.
She heard the splash as he entered the river. She glanced back. The fool had dismounted and was slogging across on foot! What sort of idiot abandoned an advantage? He’d just watched her kill four of his friends. Well, so be it. She was growing tired, and the bear was nearly spent.
I am not, the bear said. And be wary. I do not know what this one is up to, but he is different from the others.
Writers of the Future 32 Science Fiction & Fantasy Anthology Page 11
