The Memory of Bones

Death waited patiently, a stone at the bottom of the sea. The when did not matter to Os. Only the where. He stared out the window set above the kitchen basin, hands wrist-deep in water he’d drawn from the well and warmed in a kettle. The few dishes he owned soaked in the steaming water, forgotten for the moment. Beyond the window, a green field interweaved with white and yellow waved in a gentle breeze. Heads of baby’s breath and wildflower nodded as if in agreement to the whisper of the wind. Beyond that, rolling hills, the river running to the sea, and cities, cities of wood and stone and now, silence.

He looked down at the water, at his own reflection in broken circles rippling out with the movement of his hands. Craggy features, dark circles under the eyes, hair shorn close. He had never been a handsome man, not that it mattered. But he’d had a family, and that did. They were dead now, like everyone else. He looked down again, and pulled his hands from the water, shaking them off, then drying them on a nearby rag. He gave the plates beneath a scowl. He wasn’t sure why he still did this. No one would visit. No one would peek in through a window and remark to their neighbor on Os’ cleanliness.

Os stared through the open window for a minute more. He listened to his own breathing in the silence. Most days were like that now. A preternatural stillness that cloaked the world like a blanket. On good days, the wind stirred the leaves and the rushes and lent a lifelike ripple around him. On bad, it seemed the quiet crept inside Os, like a wedge in a stump, splitting his skull open from the inside. He’d tried to fill that absence, once. But he could only sing the same songs, talk to himself for so long before he felt it futile. Now, despite the silence, the idea of using his voice frightened him, as if the sound would do the inverse of his fear, and split the outside world.

He took one more deep breath, and with its exhale, made a decision. It was a thought that weighed on him daily, a question without an answer. Another voice in his head, a song he caught only when he turned this way or that. Music from another room. He turned from the open window and walked through the house, fingers lingering on objects as he passed. Luc’s pitcher of dried wildflowers, the petals withered and sere. He heard voices echo in the caverns of time. He smiled at the memory.

“Why?” he’d asked.

“The smells,” Luc had replied.

“What smells?”

Luc gestured in vague circles that took in their home. “The smells. The onion and the sausage and the-” he pointed at Os’ boots. “Those.”

Os held his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Fine. Fine.”

The memory faded and Os looked down at the pitcher again. He remembered how they’d not kept the stink of rot from his doorstep, and shook his head. He walked past, into the front room. El’s toy, a carved lion, lay on its side on the floor. He knelt and picked it up. In his mind, the light shifted, bright through yellow curtains.

“She needs a toy,” Luc had said.

The child they’d taken in played on the floor, two rocks tied with bright string in her fists, making voices for each that approximated his and Luc’s. Os knelt beside her.

“El.”

She looked up, smiling, and reached for his cheeks. He chuckled and lifted her, cradling her and tickling her ribs. She burst out in laughter that hit the walls and came back to him like a wave of joy.

“Seems she has a toy already,” Os said.

Luc fixed him with his no-budge stare. “A toy, Os. Or I will find her a cat.”

“A cat?” Os made a face.

The sunlight faded, back to the hazy light he’d grown used to. He straightened, leaving the toy on its side. It only cost him a few pennies to commission, but El delighted in it. He stared around the room, at the overstuffed couch, the end tables, the books and the blankets. Os walked to an alcove beside the front door and rummaged around for a minute. His fingers closed on a scabbard, withdrawing the long knife. His chest tightened, and then he tied it to his belt. He knew he wouldn’t need it for but one purpose. He opened the door to the summer day and stepped out.

*

The wind was clean, a small miracle Os found himself grateful for. In the early days after the Chant, bodies rotted in the sun, in their homes, in the fields. The Chant. Os found himself cursing the magi who dreamed it up. An end to war. An end to strife. What they forgot in their working was that life needed to struggle, to fight against entropy, to survive. When they cast it, it broke that will. Men and women, bird and beast simply laid down, and stopped living.

Some, like Os, survived. Either their will overpowered the magic, or they were one of the rare immune. But inevitably, the loneliness caught up to them, and they went the way of friends and family. Blade or poison or rope or the opening of veins, the method mattered not, only the result. Some banded together, survivors clinging to survivors like clotted blood. In the end though, they all fell. Memory and emotion were powerful drugs, and under their influence, even the strongest could break into a shambles.

The path crunched beneath his boots, breaking the silence into mercifully small parcels. Glimpses of white flashed between the grasses, and Os turned his head, facing down the path. Had there still been birds, he imagined his passage would have disturbed their pickings. Instead, bone and cloth bundles lay undisturbed in the long grasses of the fields, tools rusting in fallow soil. The glint of sun on steel drew his gaze, and he flicked a glance over to an abandoned plow, harness and leads drooping. The sight drew out the memory of Onder’s pride in the tool.

“Twice as many acres in half the time,” Onder had said.

“Yeah?” Os replied. “Anneia will be happy to hear that, I expect.”

Onder bobbed his head. He wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead with a rag stained white at the edges with salt. “Aye, she’s been wanting more time.”

Os thought of Luc and El with a twinge of guilt. His pension was plenty for them live on. It kept them fed, kept the roof over their head. Time spent with family was valuable coin, coin he had to spare in those days. He thought it would last, like coffers spilling over with gold. He’d had all he needed. At least, he’d thought. The memory faded, and Os glanced behind him. The roof of his cottage peeked from behind the crest of a hill. Orange tiles reflected the sun like a knife meant for his heart but striking his eyes. He blinked away the glare and the moisture that threatened to spill the cup of his eyelids, then hitched his belt and moved on.

The cottage and the plow disappeared from view as Os made his way down the country road. The grasses grew taller, and by the time his path crossed that of the Imperium Way, they waved above his head like dying arms reaching for the memory of light. Summers past, they never would have been allowed to grow so unruly, the Imperium stoic in its pursuit of order, slow and implacable. The will of man over that of nature. Mow and tame. Mow and tame. He supposed in a way, the engineers would be pleased. Not even the buzz of gnat, cry of crow, or rustle of field mouse marred the summer day.

Os wove his way between carts and wagons littering the road. Great skeletons still wore their harnesses, feet folded neatly beneath them, heads in restful repose. Drivers laid in the grass nearby, whips and crops and reins forgotten on wooden benches. He didn’t stop to look inside, ignored the human tug of curiosity brought on by canvas covering and folded curtain. He knew he’d only see that which already haunted him across the years. The wreckage of stolen lives held as much interest for him as the taste of blood in his mouth. Coppery and slick, like a penny hidden under the tongue.

The frame of a schoolhouse rose to his right, and unbidden, the image of El, sweeping from its doors as the bell in the steeple rang. Luc snapping her up in his long slender arms, spinning, their laughter filling the air. Her smile, bright as a summer tulip, blazed in Os’ mind. His limbs trembled, his legs threatened to spill him to his knees. His vision doubled, and for a moment, he nearly let it happen. The thought of hard gravel digging into his skin, drawing blood, drawing perhaps shame or anger at his loss of control was welcome, if only briefly. He dashed the tears from his eyes with determined fingers, forced himself to move on. If he felt something other than the need to see an end to this, to meet his grief head on instead of at oblique angles, he might find himself in the grass and dirt instead.

Os made good time as he pushed his feelings down, parceling them up on a shelf in his mind. He would open them when ready, a gift he didn’t particularly want, but could not avoid. Ahead, the path diverged. Forward and down, the city in the valley. A necropolis now, but once it teemed with life. Great bazaars once flowed in the streets, living things of men and women, children shouting and running, streamers on sticks flying behind them as they wove between legs like foxes in a forest. Bright bunting and banners flew overhead, the stink of forge and tanner, smells of roast meat and vegetable and savory spice weaving between and infusing cloth like dye. Bread and sweetbreads baking, the aroma like the comfort of a warm blanket. Over it all, the press and swell and crush and scent of humanity, of bodies warm and joyous, sad and broken, bright flowers pushing their way between the cracked flagstones of the city.

It was where Os had taken his commission, to fight for the glory of the empire, though if he was truthful, it was to put food in his mouth and clothes on his back. A first step on a long road paved with blood and bone and sweat. He’d lived by the blade, but with all things, steel remained strong through the slow march of years while flesh faded. He hung up his blade, took his pension. For a while, he was content alone in that cottage in the hills. For a time, the call of cricket and sparrow and the song of wind through the wheat was enough to calm the ceaseless crash of body and metal in his head, to the slow the impetus of horror thrust into his youth like a knife in the ribs.

Then he’d heard Luc’s laughter in a tavern, bright and silver, brown eyes dancing with mirth. Not long after, he’d heard El’s, gold like her hair, heavy and rich, when Luc had coaxed her from an alley with a morsel of food and a coin danced across his knuckles. But even time tarnishes silver and gold, and only the memory of their bright shine remains.

Os found himself on the left-hand path. Already he had climbed halfway as memory played through his head. For a time, he listened to the wind brush against the slope of the rock like an insistent lover. He imagined he heard whispered promises in the susurrus, and shook his head to clear it. He’d heard the Chant described that way once, a whisper of a song, the tease of a memory of something better, brighter than this life of mud and misery. Briefly he wondered if he heard it now. Would he know? Did it matter?

He crested the rise and stepped to the edge of the promontory of rock. Below, a still world. A lover holding its breath. A wave poised at its crest. He saw to the reaches of the land. Tall grasses of the plains, a sparkling rill of silver cutting through green and gold like a steel ribbon. The skeletons of airships furrowed the grass like rocks thrown by a petulant child, their magics stilled, their crew silent. Beyond that, the forest, the wolves voiceless, and beyond the forest, something between both until the land ran to the sea, a sliver of blue that snapped at the horizon like a hungry dog.

Os used to bring them here, Luc standing fearlessly at the edge, El behind his legs, clutching at the fabric. The wind blew, tousling hair and clothing, and Os lifted El so she could spread her arms, pretend she was flying, eyes bright with fear and joy at the prospect of soaring into a great blue nothing like the ships that drifted above.

An illusion. In the end, no one had flown. The Chant had taken them some time ago, leaving only bones in their place. Bones that had forgotten the trick of speech, the sound of laughter, forgotten the spell of flesh and warmth. Bones hold memories, but only for the living, Os thought.

He unbuckled the knife, drew it from the scabbard. The steel shone in the afternoon light. He pressed the blade into a fissure in the rock, letting it stand upright like a standard. In the end, steel always outlived flesh. He stepped to the edge and stood on tiptoes, then spread his arms as El once had. With a sigh that spoke of an exhaustion borne of a burden he had been given but never bought, he closed his eyes. The wind sang to him, and for a moment, he heard the bright chime of silver and gold.

Gobs, Hobs, and Gods

The fire blazed bright, a thing Crob did not like, but had little choice in. There were a lot of things he didn’t like out on the plain–the open sky, the burning sun, the stars hanging above like fiery stalactites. Each night he laid in his small roll and covered his head, sure that he wouldn’t wake, because one of the blazing things above would break free from its moorings and shatter the earth like a hob’s hammer.

Fucking hobs. It was their fault he was out here at all, instead of beneath cool stone. Instead of the soft glow of phosphorescent fungi, the painful glare of a campfire. Instead of the crush and press of his brothers and sisters, this space, all this fucking space where if you weren’t careful, if you weren’t watching every step, you might just fly upward. Or at least he imagined.

Or, thanks to the hobs, and here he spat into the dirt–a thick green gobbet of snot–thanks to the fucking hobs, men could do for you. Towering men, with their bright steel and their terrifying mounts. Their allies, thin and willowy, spun death from the air. And the thrice-godsdamned dwarves. Hairy little rockfuckers.

Not that there was much of a size disparity between gobs and dwarves, but Crob just hated them so much. The way you hate a cavemate who’s decided that shitting in the corner is good enough, or when a spider gets in your mouth at night. It was enough to make a gob shit in his hat.

He stomped over to the fire and tossed the rusty cleaver on his roll, then shed the armor he’d patched together from bits and pieces gathered over the years. Here, the bottom of a pot. There, a piece broken from some explorer’s helmet, hammered flat and riveted in place. He flopped on the ground and let out a sigh that sounded like a small bear clearing its throat.

“Eh?”

Tob gave him a look from the other side of the fire, the white hair from his long ears drooping nearly to the ground. The old gob had been fighting alongside the hobs for nigh on thirty years, and looked it. His green skin was a patchwork of scars. A piece of steel hammered into bone replaced one kneecap. His left ear was missing the tip, and one eye stared out from a milky caul.

“What’s your problem?” he asked.

“This is all shit, and you know it.”

Crob knew grousing to Tob probably wasn’t going to get him very far. The old-timers were proud of their service to the tribe.

“Yes, it is,” Tob replied.

Crob looked up, and the old gob held up a clawed finger.

“But not how you think,” he said.

Crob turned away from the fire, letting his eyes lose the bright afterimage of the flames. He looked out into the dark, shoulders roasting from the near heat. He shrugged.

“Not interested in a lesson.”

“Oh no?” The old gob laughed. “You know everything, do you? Been through the warren a few times?”

“I know more than you think,” Crob replied.

It was a lie. He knew very little, but he wouldn’t let this relic know that. Besides, he’d kissed another gob once. He’d almost even dropped spore with her. Tob’s laughter pulled him out of the memory of slick green skin, warts standing to attention like zipshrooms when you tickled their stalks.

“You don’t know shit,” Tob said.

Crob knew he wasn’t going to get any peace from the old timer unless he walked away or chopped him to little bits. And honestly, both seemed like more work than they were worth. He turned back and raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Okay, enlighten me.”

Tob cackled with glee and scooted a little, until he was closer to Crob’s shoulder. He leaned in and rubbed his hands together, warming them against the fire, though it wasn’t that cold. Crob waited impatiently, fingered the handle of his cleaver. He was considering how best to split the old gob’s skull when Tob spoke.

“You know why we fight?” Tob asked.

Crob sighed. “The hobs tell us to go, and we go, or we get the whip. Or the bucket.”

He shuddered in memory of the bucket. Still, the code of the gob conscript rolled off his tongue like rote. Which it was. The single lesson the hobs taught. Short and brutal, like everything they did. Tob shook his head.

“We fight because this–” the old gob spread his arms, “is ours. Every bit of it. Every stinking tree and shithouse, every tall castle and low cave. It’s ours, Crob, and it’s a sad day when the lowest gobs don’t know that any longer.”

“How d’ya figure? I say let the men and the elves have the tops and we’ll take the dark. I like the dark.”

“And the dwarves?”

“Fuck those hairy little shitscrapers. We’ll have them over spits.”

Tob’s wizened hand, still strong, came around and smacked Crob in the back of the head. “Look, fuckwit,” he said, “this is ours. And I’m gonna tell you why. Your momma should’ve told you, but I think we both know you were probably shit into a mushroom pile and abandoned.”

“Fuck you.”

“You ain’t got the spores,” the old gob said. “Now listen. Way back when, before there were talls and smalls and castle and marsh and fen and cave and plain, there weren’t nothin’. But there was Grubthak.”

“Who’s that?”

“Who’s–?” Tob interrupted his story long enough to sputter a small litany of outrage.

When he finished, silence fell. The fire crackled, and Tob stared at Gob from one yellowed eye. “Your generation,” he scoffed, “shits out the best parts of themselves each morning. Grubthak’s our god. And you’d do well to remember that.”

“Nah,” Crob said.

“Nah?”

“Don’t believe in gods. And if there were some, they’d only want sommat from us, like the hobs and the dwarves.”

“Look, you–” Tob took a deep breath. He muttered darkly under his breath and shook his head. “Anyway, before Grubthak, there were a couple of things. A serpent with a thousand heads. A woman made of flowers. Sentient meat. But as is the way of our people, Grubthak was hungry, and he ate those things. That left him, the void, and a powerful need to shit.

“So he did what all gobs do. He dug himself a hole, and he pushed. And he pushed. He strained for six days, grunting, sweating, and cursing. His curses became men and elves and dwarves. His sweat, the seas. And on the seventh day, with a mighty heave and a furious anger, he shit the world.”

“Into a hole?” Crob asked.

The old gob nodded. “This place is a ball of shit in a pit, and until we prove we’re worthy, we don’t get another one.”

“Seems like a fucked-up thing to want in the first place.”

Again Tob nodded. “The cursed ones wanted this ball of shit for themselves. They were born of anger and need, and those things still drive them. They drove us, the true things that passed from him, underground. Those that wouldn’t run, they killed. Those they couldn’t kill, they chained.”

“This is our world, gob,” and here Tob pounded his chest. “And we aim to take it back.”

“You’re clearly insane,” Crob replied.

Tob looked at him for a long moment, silence passing between them. Finally, the old gob let a disgusted sound, waved a dismissive hand, and slid back to the other side of the fire. Crob laid in his bedroll. For a while, he heard only the sounds of the camp bedding down for the night.

He stared at the stars until he couldn’t, then rolled to his side. Curiosity burned in him, and with one long yellowed claw, he scooped up a small portion of earth and tasted it.

Oh well, he thought. At least I’m not a rockfucker.

 

The Brown Note: A Cord & Nenn Short

Cord hung from the cargo netting we’d rigged into hammocks, upside down. His hair swept towards the floor in a hirsute halo. The boat was headed to Pike, a little town some miles north of the river proper, and it’d been a long couple of days. I shot the stocky thief a look that could have cut glass.

“I’m bored,” he said. He wiggled his eyebrows.

“You’ve got two options, then,” I said, settling back into the netting and cracking the book. Killer Queen. It was just getting good.

“Take over the boat and find the nearest brothel?”

“I mean you could fuck yourself. Or you could listen to me.”

“That’s hurtful,” he said.

“Not as hurtful as me stabbing you til you’re quiet for the rest of the ride.”

I’m not normally murderous towards the ones I love, but he’d been singing some infernal thing from the last port nonstop, and I was just about ready to sever his vocal cords for a short respite. Hey, I’m not a lunatic. He’d heal. He always healed. I wondered briefly if Cord would ever die, or if it would be just him, the cockroaches, and whatever syphilitic lunatic he’d picked for a partner at the end.

“Hey, just because I can’t die doesn’t mean I should. It hurts.”

“Baby.”

“Piss-britches.”

I blew out an exasperated breath. The time he hadn’t spent singing had been spent bitching, and barring ending him, I was almost ready to march above deck and declare my presence. Hopefully, the captain would take mercy and only have me flogged half to death.

“Entertain yourself.”

“I am,” he said. “Your face is redder than a baboon’s ass, and that is entertaining. Wow. Look at that vein. I’m gonna name it Axl.”

I chucked a knife at him, and he cringed as it hit the bulkhead, quivering in place. He climbed back into his hammock and fidgeted. A long sigh. I tried to ignore him and turned back to the book. The Queen was just getting ready to unlace her breeches. He sighed again, and I pictured him flying from the mainmast like a meat flag.

“What?” I asked.

“I need paper.”

I dug into my pack, coming up with paper and a pencil. I passed it up to him.

“I’m convinced your parents were from the same branch of the family tree,” I said.

“Thank you, Nenn,” he said sweetly.

I sat down and dug into my book again. I’d read maybe another ten pages before his head reappeared. He wore a grin, and one eyebrow cocked.

“Funt,” he said.

“What?”

“I decided to make my own curses. Listen: Slimp. Smuctating. Pimhole. Fardwark. Scrum. Clotpole. Wim. Frangilate. I’m quite proud of that one.”

“Okay, use even one of those in a sentence.”

His grin widened, and I knew I’d asked the wrong question.

“A fortnight ago I funted a slimpy little scribe. When we were done, he thanked me for the frangilation, and licked my wim.”

“Have you considered seeing a professional?” I asked.

“Have you considered wearing some shadow on your eyes? Just a little here–,” his fingers came up and swiped under his eye.

I chucked a second blade at him, and it sunk into his shoulder.

“You fardwarking clotpole!” he yelled, then promptly fell into the deck.

He pulled the short blade free with a pained grunt and handed it back to me. Somewhere above deck, a bell sounded, and the motion of the boat calmed.

“Hooray, Pike! Get some sleep,” he said. “We’ve got work tonight.”

“Okay, but trade me nets.”

“Why?”

“Until you stop bleeding, I don’t want it all over me.”

“You’re oddly fastidious for someone who stabs everyone.”

“This is my best shirt.”

“That is your only shirt.”

I climbed into the upper hammock and closed my eyes. After a moment, I heard Cord climb into his with a groan. In a few minutes, his snores filled the hold.

*

We entered Pike just after nightfall, slipping off the boat with relative ease. Most of the sailors were already out carousing or sleeping off the journey, and no one had posted a guard. Pike wasn’t a big town, but it was somewhat respectable. It stood on a slight hill, the docks giving way to shops, shops giving way to modest homes, all of which led up to the mayor’s house some way up the hill. It was a sprawling mansion compared to everything else. For the most part, despite the fair size of the shops and homes, paint flaked, roofing tiles curled, walls warped in the riverside air. Anemic chickens scratched at the dirt paths, and an emaciated goat bleated from a small corral.

“Okay, why are we here?” I asked.

Cord gestured to the big house. “Rumor is, he’s been skimming from the town ledgers, the businesspeople. Taxes are out of control. Got a chest the size of a small elephant.”

“And we’re gonna steal it?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Too hard to move. We’re gonna steal part of it, and redistribute the rest. But first, my plan.”

He gestured toward a lamp pole as we passed it. A poster on the iron read:

BARD/BAND WANTED

SPECIAL TALENTS CONSIDERED

APPLY AT CBGB

“CBGB?” I asked.

“Centaur Balls, Goblin Balls,” Cord said.

“Classy. How the hell did you get those up so fast?” I asked.

“I slipped the bosun a little gold. Captain doesn’t pay him enough. How do you think we got on and off the boat so easily?”

“Nice.”

“I know.”

He steered us down a side street filled with shops stacked shoulder to shoulder, glass fronts displaying threadbare wares. Someone coughed in an alley, and we moved a little quicker, my hands on my knives. Here too, posters decorated walls and poles, and sometimes windows. As we drew near to CBGB, the sounds of music and laughter came to us, and the smells of roast food. My mouth watered at the prospect of not eating dried fish and biscuits, and we picked up the pace.

Inside, the pub was a riot of noise and color. Mercenaries from Gentia rubbed shoulders with Mane’s guard, while pockets of citizenry downed tumblers of beer and shoveled potato and onion mixtures into their mouths. We sat and ordered food, then turned to the stage at the end of the hall. A small band played there at the moment, lackluster and half-hearted, not that the patrons noticed.

My meal was potato skinned thin and fried, and some green that had been boiled and buttered. As we’d seen when we disembarked, meat was at a premium. Fortunately for the town (or maybe not, depending on how often you ate them), potatoes were abundant. While I ate, I watched the door. Patrons came and went as the night lengthened, and I thought perhaps Cord’s advertisement hadn’t attracted any takers. By the time I finished though, the bards began to enter.

The first was a group of three, black hair, black kohl around their eyes, black clothes. They carried two mandolins and a drum. The next–my heart nearly stopped. I recognized them. Vyxen, a girl group I’d seen several times in my youth. Tall, blonde, thin. They carried all sorts of instruments and could play them. The last was a lanky-haired youth with a slouch and a tube with a pipe at one end. I didn’t hold out much hope for him, but Cord perked up when he entered.

The house band trailed off, and the first newcomers took the stage. They tuned their instruments, then the lead, a stocky man in a sleeveless tunic, arms bulging with muscle, announced in a gravelly voice, “We are Goblin Shite!”

The mandolins began, shrill and loud, and the drummer hammered on his instrument in a frenzy, not unlike that of a rabbit’s ability to fuck. The big man launched into a verse, voice straining against the laws of physics and good taste.

“YOUR LOVE MAKES ME WANT TO DIE
I DON’T WANT YOUR POISONED PIE

I DON’T WANT YOUR HAIR-COVERED COMB

I JUST WANT THE QUIET OF THE TOMB

KILL ME

KILL ME
KILL ME

COCKROACH”

The mandolins faded out, and the patrons of the bar fell into dead silence. I looked at Cord. He shrugged.

“Next,” he called.

Goblin Shite trudged off the stage, and Vyxen took their place. Crisy, the lead singer, announced the band name, then they struck up a tune.

“This one’s called Love Swamp.

One day you left me

You can’t just let it be

Now I’m drowning

In the mud

I feel it in my blood

Love Swamp

Let me go

Love Swamp

Everything’s moist

Love Swamp

I never had a choice”

Again, the music faded out. The crowd looked at one another. Silence filled the room. Vyxen left the stage, and as Crisy passed the lead singer of Goblin Shite, she gave him the finger.

“Ah,” I said.

“Heartbreak makes bad poets of us all,” Cord agreed.

The last rose to the stage and pressed the pipe on his tube to his mouth. His cheeks puffed out. The note he played was low, and as it went, it rapidly slid to inaudible. Cord stood and raised his hands.

“That’s good,” he said.

The kid stopped playing, and Cord approached the stage. They stood for a moment, speaking in low tones, then a bit of cash passed between them, and the young musician took the stairs to the rooms above.

“I don’t know what just happened,” I said.

Cord winked. “You’ll see. Let’s get some sleep.”

We headed upstairs to our room.

*

The next morning, the city was almost as bright as the bar the night before. A festival had been called, and the town square teemed with people in white clothing, bare feet, and ribbons. They looked less than happy to be there, milling about listlessly, casting fearful glances at the guards. Seeing them by day, I noticed signs of malnutrition, of hunger. In others, diseases easily stopped by cheap apothecary medicine. Cord was at my elbow like a ghost.

“See?” he said. “He forces them into these things in his honor. Festivals dedicated to his largesse. Like he’s a benevolent king. Let me tell you, those who deserve these sorts of displays usually end up cold in the ground, in my experience. The ones who don’t, well–not everyone has a sword arm, a knight on horseback, or a kindly wizard. The ones who do rarely deserve that privilege. You think a kindly leader needs all that muscle?” he nodded toward one side of the square.

They’d erected a platform and made it up with a tall chair in red and gold. Beside it, guards posted up in bright mail and short blades, pikes at their side, ready for the Mayor to arrive. Bunting surrounded everything, from the stage to the fountain. Cord led us through the crowd.

“What’s the plan here, anyway?” I asked for the third time that day.

“You’ll see. Look, I don’t want to give it away. It’s brilliant.”

“Uh…” I said.

“What?”

Brilliant usually means ‘ending in bloodshed’.”

He made a dismissive sound. “That’s only happened like three times. But I can guarantee that while everyone’s here, we’re going to just walk in and take that gold.”

“Uh, okay. And I’ll shit unicorns.”

“If you could shit unicorns, we could’ve retired a long time ago. Here,” he handed me a pair of wax plugs.

“Your sense of humor gets weirder every day,” I said.

“They’re for your ears.”

“Of course. I knew that.”

A fanfare of trumpets blared, and the crowd parted as the Mayor strutted from a nearby tent. Thin and florid, he climbed the steps to the platform with a look on his face like he’d just been inaugurated as the city’s official shit-smeller. He plopped into his chair.

“Let the festivities begin!” he declared.

Small confetti cannons blared from somewhere, blasting the crowd with colored paper.  A cheer went up. Opposite the Mayor’s platform, the boy from the bar climbed onto the stage, instrument in hand. A scowl crossed the Mayor’s face and he pointed at the boy.

“That is not my band. Guards. Guards!”

Cord nudged me. “Earplugs.”

I shoved the plugs into my ears as the boy blew into his pipe. At first, I heard a distant vibration, then nothing. I looked at Cord.

“Why did I need these?” I shouted.

The guards charged the stage, and I wondered if getting the boy cut to ribbons was part of Cord’s plan. My hands went to my knives as I calculated how many I could take out. Cord put a hand on mine and pointed, shaking his head.

As the wave of guards approached the stage, they staggered, dropping their weapons. They clutched their stomachs and then collapsed. Wet stains spread across their trousers. The effect rippled outward from there, and the town square became an impromptu latrine. Foot by foot, the crowd was hit by that brown note. White trousers turned brown in violent cascades of liquid shit, stains blooming like particularly aggressive flowers. Bare feet splashed in mud that was not wholly mud. Some tried to flee, the Mayor among them, but the sudden intestinal apocalypse had caused panic and chaos, and as I watched, people were trampled and shoved, broken and suffocated in the dank mud. The mayor went down, and Cord nodded at me.

We made our way up the country lane, the screams of the enshittening behind us. The Mayor’s gate opened easily. His front door was unlocked, his personal guard laying unconscious in pools of their own waste. As we passed, one forced himself to his feet, not completely incapacitated. He leaned on his pike, coughed. A thick ripping sound followed, and his face went red as he found the strength to charge, trouser leg leaving a trail as he attacked. I shoved Cord out of the way and slipped past the man’s already sluggish guard. My blades found the insides of his thigh, his wrist, and he collapsed as arteries that once held blood he needed no longer did. It ran from him like headwaters, mixing with the foul brown stuff. I thought of the mud-red alluvial soil of the deltas and turned away.

“Feel better?” Cord asked.

I wiped a blade on my trouser leg as we walked.

“Yeah, actually, I do. You have no idea how close I was to skewering your kidneys for fun. Wait, can you grow those back?”

Cord shrugged. “Never tried.” He glanced over, then down at my knife. “Don’t want to.”

I grinned and sheathed the blade as we came into the treasury.

Cord was right. There was enough treasure for a city. I took a small golden flute as a souvenir and a handful of coins. Then, the other bands appeared, and several sailors behind them, each wearing earplugs, each toting a wheelbarrow. One by one, they loaded the money and carted it into town. As Crisy passed, she gave me a wink, and I blushed to my toes. I watched her go, and Cord was at my elbow, grinning.

“Behind the bushes? Down the basement? Lock the cellar door?”

“Shut up,” I said.

“Gonna talk dirty to her?”

“Gret’s balls,” I said.

When it was empty, we left the way we’d come. I stepped over a guard writhing in a puddle of shit.

“Well, what do you think?” Cord asked.

“It’s a funting mess,” I said.

“We did a good thing.”

I thought of the crowd of townspeople who’d be nursing sore bottoms and egos. I grunted.

“We did an okay thing,” he amended.

I watched the last of the wheelbarrows of gold disappear into town. It would be used to build business, feed families, and care for children. I clapped him on the shoulder.

“We did a terrible thing with a good outcome. How about that?”

He shrugged. “Potato, diarrhea.”

We stepped from the mansion into bright sunlight. At the bottom of the hill, disaster. Here though, it looked like nothing but blue skies. We walked on.

River of Thieves Preview

As corpses go, Cord proved a constant thorn in my side. Don’t get me wrong. I liked the old thief, but dying merely inconvenienced him. Dealing with the mess after, however, dug into my ass like a persistent nettle. Given the choice of a nettle in your ass for years, or a small beetle that bores into your guts and then chews its way up your torso like a man slathered in horse shit runs to a bath, most people are going to choose the quicker, less annoying option. Fortunately, I am not most people. I might even be a saint. Or an idiot. I guess I’ll find out when the gods hand out prizes at the end.

I sank down against the wall, avoiding the still-glistening blood. I lit a cigar and watched curls of blue-white smoke drift off into the summer night. My brain drifted with them, wondering what a normal life might look like. House, field, two kids, husband. Dog? Probably a dog. I snorted. None of that fit me. Even if my family made the choice to keep me, the path of life veered like a bird caught in a high wind.

I shook myself and looked down at Cord. After a minute, I poked a finger into his empty eye socket. It came away with a wet squelch and I wiped it on my trousers. Gross, sure. But caring about gross passed me by roughly eighteen months ago, and little in the way of squeamishness remained. I still don’t know how he talked me into it the first time. I thought back to that first conversation.

“Look, it’s easy, one quick jab in the eye, and we’re in the money,” he said.

“Why not the lung? Or the heart?”

“Because it hurts.” He rubbed his chest. “It really hurts,” he muttered.

“A knife in the eye doesn’t?”

He shrugged. “I mean, only for a minute, then it’s into the brain, and plop, splat, I’m dead.”

“What if I only jiggle up your noodle?”

“Then you’ll be changing my trousers for a month.”

“Right, so the long knife.”

He raised an eyebrow, and I mimed jabbing a blade into his face.

“So it goes deeper. Might need to scrape the back of the skull to be sure,” I said.

“That’s the spirit. The disturbing, way too eager spirit,” he said, and went about packing our gear.

Wind rustling paper under the bridge snapped my attention back to the present. I looked up at the poster of King Mane plastered to the brick and shot it a sneer. The royal propagandist’s work impressed me as an example of sweetening horseshit to make fudge. The royal twit appeared on the poster sporting a bulging chest and suspiciously well-endowed codpiece. The art depicted the king handing out gold coins to waifs in rags. They held shining faces uplifted and beaming in thankfulness.

I suspected the reason Cord chose this spot to die sprouted from a tree of simple spite. He hated Mane with a passion that bordered on obsession. His favorite epithet for the king remained The Royal Shit, despite his ever-rotating vocabulary of disdain. I didn’t blame him. Even a short tour of the kingdom gave you an idea of just how much bullshit those posters peddled. Still, some of the king’s policies proved useful. Opposite the lie of his largesse stood the truth of his paranoia. As a result, Mane employed a great many mercenaries to patrol even small cities and roads. Rumors abounded that he saw enemies around every corner.

Which brought me to my next task – calling the guards. Our take sat on a boat about 300 yards away, along with my bloody clothes. I didn’t have a scratch on me. Cord did the dirty work – well, maybe the painful work. If you think stabbing a guy in the eye doesn’t make for some interesting dreams, I’d like to speak to you about the definition of disturbing. But I didn’t envy Cord’s part–committing the robbery and ensuring someone spotted him so I could point out his corpse. After, constables being what they are in the backwaters of the Veldt, they’d mark it as a bad deal and close the case. We’d even leave a bit of gold around Cord’s body to let them think he’d been the victim of a double-cross in the end.  Lay low for a bit and repeat every couple hundred miles.

I tossed the cigar into the canal. I mussed my hair, then knuckled my fingers into my eyes until the whites went red. I ran for the local guard shack just up the road, sniffling. Once I let them calm me down―weeping women make even big guys with pointy swords uncomfortable―they followed me to the body. Over time, I’ve perfected my role as distraught citizen to the point I expected them to melt down Gunter Horvath’s awards and recast the shiny gold in honor of my performance.

Once they left the guard station, I slipped away and hid in the shadows until they passed from sight, carting Cord’s body off like flotsam washed up in their clean little hamlet. No littering. Mind the dung. Thanks for visiting. I hopped in the boat and rowed out of the berth, the water sending a chill froth over the bow in the night air.  A clear dark night with a bright moon hung before me, lighting the river.

*

The mortuary stood at the edge of town. I beached the boat just up the river, and crept out, tugging it into the reeds. They’d eventually find it, but by then, then we’d be long gone. Once done, I straightened, wiped my face clean, and checked my clothing. Rough, but passable. I strode into the building. A teen sat behind the counter, idly twirling a pencil. I gave him a bright smile, and he glowered back and rolled his eyes.

“What?” he asked.

He clearly possessed dickish tendencies. Not the most charming trait. Or maybe just stupidity. In which case, I pitied him a little. We’d all been there. I thought of Cord’s advice: never attribute evil to dumb. So I smiled through teeth I wanted to use to bite him in the face.

“I’m here to pick up a body.”

“Look, I can’t do anything without my boss’s say-so,” the kid said.

“Sure, sure.”

“I’m not even supposed to be here today. You think I want to spend the night with a dead guy?”

I shook my head and let the smile drop. “Look at it this way – I sign the paperwork, take the dead guy off your hands, and we’re both on our merry way. Your boss can’t bitch about that, right? I mean, he’ll have my signature, and you’ll be short one corpse.”

The kid’s eyes shifted to the steel door behind him, uncertainty twisting his lips. He shuffled his feet and let out a huff of air.

“Fine. Your signature and a fiver.”

The smile slid back to my face. “Sure, sure.”

I signed his parchment with a name that meant something like Bearded Taint in Gentian and plopped a crown worth at least five lesser gold on the table. The privilege of screwing with people in charge paid for itself. When you’re handling dead guys and dealing with bureaucracy, you have fun when you can. He pulled the sheet back without looking at it. I felt a pang of disappointment at his inattention as he turned and unlocked the door, but squashed it. Some battles you won after you left the battlefield. One of Cord’s sayings. Like most of his little nuggets of wisdom, it carried the double edge of horseshit and truth.

A chill rippled across the room. Low mist clung to the floor, carrying the mingled scents of dried blood and slow rot. We toted Cord’s body out of the building and onto a small cart waiting in the yard. We dropped the dead man with a shared grunt. He probably wouldn’t wake up with a headache. When we finished, the kid leaned against the wall and reached into a pocket, pulling out a tobacco twist and setting light to it with a small striker.

“Your guy’s all fucked up. Chiurgeon said it looked like someone was playing with his eye after they stabbed him.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah. Sick. What’s wrong with people?”

I shrugged. “Lotta weirdos out there.”

“Yeah.”

I wheeled Cord around the building, and chucked the bag of gold down beside him. Then I headed down the street, keeping to the shadows, the soft squeak of the cart’s wheels keeping me company.

*

The first time you cart a body down the road in the middle of the night, and the dead guy farts, you scream a little. And pee. About the eighteenth time, you sigh and keep downwind. The walk back to the rented cottage wound through town, and I spent a lot of it humming under my breath. Something nonsensical–Dead Hon and the Elephant Boys, or Sketchy Gan.

I crested the slope of a hill, the roof of the rented cottage showing. I managed to drag Cord’s body through the front door, and after a bit of flopping about and grunting, propped him up on the divan, then sat down to wait. He used to come back quick. After this many deaths in a row though, his resurrections crept forward in increasing increments.

The first time Cord woke up in a mortuary, the damn chiurgeon tried to drive a stake through his heart. Nothing like rearranging a guy’s organs a second time to delay his flight back to the real world. On the upside, it allowed me time to retrieve the body and avoid nastiness like that. On the down, I wondered if the slow return marked a decline in his overall health.

I’d made it halfway through an article in the local one-sheet about the proliferation of morons in government. (Granted, the editor probably wouldn’t have let them print those exact words, mostly because they would have ended their career at the end of a rope.) They’d somehow managed to transfer the monthly farm subsidies to a fund meant for young debutantes. Now the crop yield flagged, but the would-be princesses wore diamonds the size of their skulls. Leave it to the rich to fuck the country over with an impressive tidal wave of shit and still come out smelling like roses.

Cord sat bolt upright, screamed once, and vomited up a lump of purple flesh, interrupting my train of thought. The thing squirmed against the rug, smearing crimson on the cream-colored wool, and stubby limbs sprouted from its sides. I smashed it with the hammer beside me. Cord coughed, blood spattering the floor, and vomited again. This time only vomit, no creepy living organ.

His chest heaved, and he made a sound like a sick dog. I waited for a minute. This passed for normalcy these days – the resurrections grew worse, each one taking something out of him. The first death I’d witnessed had only been his third death. He’d come back so easily then. Now we’d reached fifteen or so. A life of running and robbing sucked the sense out of the days. Nailing the exact number down felt like more than I wanted to trouble myself with. Especially when what I really wanted was a warm bed and a night of sleep. Cord sucked in one more breath and sat back, his face pale. He reached shaking fingers for the mug of water on the table beside him and took a long swallow, then finished with a small cough and a wan smile.

“How long?”

“Three days.”

“Gods.”

“Yeah.” I set the paper down. “Look, we gotta take a break. If you die for real, the gravy train’s over.”

He nodded and waved a hand, tipping the mug up again, draining the dregs. He set it down and leaned forward.

“I’ve got a plan.”

“I hope so. That looks like your spleen on the carpet. But your spleen had legs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a spleen with legs.”

He looked down and grimaced, then back at me. “One more job. Then we can break.”

I nodded. My gut knew better. One more job is never just one more job for people like Cord. Or worse, it really is the last job, ever. Retirement looked like death or prison. I didn’t know which held the greater likelihood. If death continued to avoid Cord, he’d find himself vying with stone walls in a contest to see which rotted first. On the other hand, if the slowing rate of his resurrection indicated anything, true death loomed nearer than either of us expected. Neither of those things mattered much. The question that hung over both of us, like a sword suspended by a hair, was how many more deaths did he have left?

*

“The Gentleman Bastards,” Cord said.

“What?” We’d been quietly preparing for the next job, and Cord’s statement took me by surprise.

“Our name,” he said.

“I’m a woman. Also, I think that’s taken.”

Cord looked up from lacing his boot. “Oh.”

“What’s the plan here?”

“I go in, take the gold from the safe, and we live out the next few months someplace sunny. You know, nice beaches, pretty women.”

I shook my head. “Not what I meant.”

The question reared its head before, but Cord dodged it the way you dodge a bit of snot someone’s spat on the walk.

“Why do we need all this gold?” I asked. 100 pieces provided a modest, but comfortable retirement. 1000 might buy a small castle and servants. 10,000, a duchy. We probably had enough for a few duchies by now.

He frowned and straightened, boots laced tight to his ankles. “I don’t understand.”

“This is more money than you can spend in one lifetime.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Ah.”

“Ah, what?”

“Well, who here has a bit more than one lifetime?”

“That it? Planning well into your low thousands?”

“Well…”

“What?”

“Rich people piss me off.”

“Why?”

“All that money. What do they do with it?”

I thought about. “Well, there’s upkeep for their properties, pay for the staff, food, ponies, weapons, armor, maybe a wizard―“

“Think about that. They have a wizard on retainer. How many of the guys in the Dripping Bucket could say that?”

“To be fair, if those guys had a wizard, they’d just use it to make an endless beer fountain.”

“Would they? Fet would have paid the guy to keep his crops growing. Al, his children healthy. Yellyn – she would have made sure everyone in her parish had books. But these guys – ‘ooh, my sword’s on fire’ – does that sound all that bloody useful?”

“What about the staff? They’ve got to have jobs.”

“Jobs they wouldn’t need if their high and mighty lord of the taint hadn’t annexed their land and used it for his personal sewer.”

“Are you proposing a redistribution of wealth?”

“In a way,” he hedged.

“There really should be a word for that.”

“There is. It’s called justice.”

“No… look – what do you get out of this?” He’d led the conversation in a circle, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like that this felt urgent, though I didn’t know why.

He looked up at me, then at the moon, hanging in the sky like a weight, and promptly changed the subject.

“Time to go.”

*

The robbery went the way they always do. That is to say, a combination of chaos and blood and short moments of terror. Cord grabbed the money, let them see his face, let them give chase, and slipped his pursuers before the second turn. We left behind an obvious trail. We happened upon one of the rare hamlets without a constable station, and needed to make our path clear enough to follow. Without Cord’s body and evidence of a robbery, the possibility of endless pursuit became more likely.

We stepped into a glade not far from the main track, sweat dripping from the strain of carrying the gold. We broke branches and stomped prints into the dirt as we went, leaving a path easy enough for a blind bear to track. Cord set the bag down and leaned against a tree, wiping a palm across his forehead.

“Okay, that shoul-”

An arrow sprouted from his eye mid-sentence and he collapsed. Men in dark leather appeared as if from nowhere and filled the clearing. They bristled with weapons, potential violence, and some sort of perfume. A man with a pinched face and a hungry look in his eye stepped toward me. He held a naked blade in his hand, the heavy edge glinting in the moonlight. His eyes gleamed with menace. His codpiece hung limp.

“We are the Knights of Axe!” he proclaimed.

I waved a hand, trying to dispel the stink.

“That is a powerful scent, sir knight,” I said.

“Yea, the alchemist what sold me it assured me it would attract only the finest of maidens.”

I coughed. “It’s certainly attracting something.”

A fly landed on his trousers and buzzed frantically before falling to the ground. We watched as it spun a circle on its back, wings fluttering like an erratic heartbeat. Finally, it died. He looked up, eyes meeting mine.

“Tell no one of this,” he said.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” I replied.

I heard the clank of coins and saw the bag disappear into the trees, one of his men toting it. I looked from it to him, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Not a word,” he said.

“My lips are sealed,” I replied.

He looked me over once, then turned and disappeared into the woods, leaving me alone with Cord and the sound of running feet. I put on my best crying face and sobbed as the constable burst into the clearing.

“Ma’am. Ma’am!”

I looked up. “Yes?”

“What happened here?”

I widened my eyes and tried to look shocked. “Thieves!”

“Where?”

“There!” I pointed to the tree line.

He glanced around, noting Cord’s body, the fletching of the arrow still pointing to the sky. He looked back to me and narrowed his eyes.

“And how did you survive?”

I batted my eyelashes and gave him a smile. “They thought me too fine to despoil, sire. But they have my broach. If only someone could retrieve it. It belonged to my gran, and I’d be sore glad to have it back.”

He looked from my chest to my eyes and back again. I coughed, and he lifted his eyes once more, face bright red. He cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes,” he raised his voice, “Men, search the trees! We must have these scoundrels! Not to worry, ma’am. We’ll have your jewels back to your bosom in no time.”

My eyes strained to not roll into the back of my head and cause permanent blindness. “My hero.”

He grinned and left to supervise the search, shouting orders as he went, chest puffed like a rooster. They quickly forgot me in the bustle. I slunk away.

*

While the guards were busy beating the bush, I circled back. I’d stolen the uniform of a worker of Gren. Thick overalls, black mask, and heavy boots and gloves. I hauled Cord’s body into the cart and wheeled him out, nodding to the same captain who’d stopped me earlier. He averted his gaze. Workers of Gren were considered bad luck in the smaller backwaters–stupid country superstition. It was like being afraid of the trash men. No one wanted a flood of maggots in the streets. These guys should be getting parades. The guard turned back to his business, and I hauled my partner’s dead ass back to the cottage.

Cord woke sans one arrow in his skull, as is the preferred way to wake for most of the known world. He coughed, choked, and spat up another little critter, this one near in size to the last. Again, I hammered it with a mallet, and let Cord recover. He sipped his water and looked out the window over the long field of summer wheat and wildflowers.

“Penny for your thoughts,” I said.

“That’s a weird saying. Are you implying my thoughts are worth only a single cent?”

“Just an expression.”

“Yeah, well, next time offer a crown,” he grumbled.

“What were you thinking?” I asked, trying to keep the exasperation from my voice.

“I was thinking it’s time we go for bigger fish. This last job—well, I’ve had more successful shits. Fuck those guys.”

“Sadly, I don’t think anyone ever will,” I replied.

“What?”

“Nothing. You were saying?”

He gave me a look with one eye squinted, then shook his head and went on. “I think it’s time for a change of pace, maybe time to set us up for retirement. There’s an old Gentian saying: ‘Why borrow from men when you can steal from gods?’.”

“What is wrong with the Gentians?”

“A lot. You’re ignoring my point, though.”

“Are you suggesting we rob the gods?”

“Are you suggesting we shouldn’t? What’ve they given us? Aside from an insatiable blood lust, a horrible curse, and threadbare socks?” he held up one foot, toes poking from the stocking.

“Hey, it’s not insatiable. I’m just saying, if you want to spend the rest of your life with a dick for a face, go ahead.”

Cord waved it away. “One bridge at a time. The point is, all this small shit is exactly that. Rabbit turds.”

“And?”

He fell quiet for a moment, gray eyes searching for something out beyond the flowers. I followed his line of sight, to the ribbon of the river cutting across the Veldt and beyond, to Midian, the capitol.

“Okay,” I sighed, “crown for your thoughts.”

“Better,” he muttered.

“Well?”

“You ever wonder if there’s more?”

“Like less horseshit and blood? A little less of the flux and a little more flesh?”

“Yeah, something like that. I just… look, there’s no reason for this to go on as long as it has. I’m getting older, and these deaths, they’re taking something out of me. And you. You’ve got a long life ahead, if we pull this off, you can live it in a place that isn’t covered in shit.”

“Like a king?”

Cord grimaced for a split second. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Okay, so what’s the plan?”

“First, we’re gonna need a crew.”

Inwardly, I groaned. He gave me one of his lunatic grins, and my stomach dropped. I knew that look. Outwardly, I groaned.

The Goblin King

Here’s a story I played with a bit, and sent on submission to feel out the waters. I did a couple of things I never do here, which was play with purple prose and perspective. It didn’t find a home, but I enjoyed writing it since I had Jareth in my head after just having watched Labyrinth.

 

The Goblin King

 

The goblin king sat atop an outcrop of stone perched on a hill, his narrow blade planted point-first in the earth between his booted feet, the edge dripping crimson. Carrion birds wheeled and called above him, a cacophony of misery echoing from ribbed throats, an eyeball pierced on the end of a gore-encrusted beak, its optic nerve fluttering in the breeze with the flap of ebon wings. Arrayed around him, the remains of a once-grand army as though a whirlwind had swept through their ranks, bodies broken, severed, exsanguinated.

He held his head as one who has suffered a loss, as one who has come to the end of a long road of exhaustion, and there, found only more road. He did not weep though the ground doubled and trebled before him and the carmine drops on his blade blurred to the point of blossoming into petals.

And yet, and yet, the sound of footfalls, of a light step avoiding rigid steel and limp flesh. Of breath held to keep out the scents of offal and shit and the coppery tang of blood spilled by the liter, by the gallon, by the barrel. The rasp of breath sucked in, the stifled cry as vision met the cloudy eyes of the dead and saw only the uncertainty of an eternity not promised. Then, the end of the approach. A stillness in the air, the screaming quiet of anticipation as the visitor screwed up his courage to speak.

“Speak,” the king commanded, for command was his province, the land he had always known.

The voice atop the blackened boots, boots that had seen summers and winters in the ash of many a hearth, perhaps with quill and parchment, perhaps while tending a pot, spoke, low and hesitant, a thing from the underbrush that fears the sun.

“H… How?”

The goblin king gestured to a stone similar to the one he sat on, and the stranger settled, not comfortably, but as comfortably as one can afford when perched on granite and faced with an embodied force of nature. When he had settled, the king looked up and regarded the man. Plain face, a dusting of whiskers across a straight jaw. Thick nose, bright eyes that shone with, if not intelligence, curiosity.

“I would ask you the same,” the king replied. “How is it you’ve survived…” he gestured to the surrounding carnage. An indication. An indictment.

The man shrugged. “I wasn’t here. I saw it though. The light. Heard it. The sound.”

The goblin king nodded and shifted on his stone. “Then, let me ask – are you mad?”

“How do you mean?”

“You saw what happened here and decided to investigate?”

“I’m a curious sort. Besides, it seemed to be over.” He looked around, though not at the dead. Instead his gaze sought the abstract. The silence in the aftermath. “Was I wrong?”

The king shook his head and looked up, past the avian storm that gathered. The sun still stood high, a vast unblinking eye. He addressed the man.

“I have time.”

“For?”

“Questions. You have curiosity, no? Let me sate it.”

“And then?”

The king shrugged. “We shall see.”

The man nodded and pulled a case from his side, unrolling a sheaf of parchment, tipping free an inkpot and a quill. He looked around, and with a demeanor that practically vibrated with unease, pulled a board shield from under a dead man, the body squelching with movement. He grimaced, and then moved quicker, needing to distance himself. He stretched the parchment out and laid it across the board, then dipped the quill and glanced up at the king.

“Tell me a story.”

“What kind of story?”

“Yours.”

“Why?”

“People will want to read it. To know you. To know this.”

The king sighed and tilted his head back, trying to remember. Memory floated at the edge, vagaries, a chiaroscuro of thought. He tilted his head back, gaze rolling down his nose at the scribe like water off a hill. Quizzical, concerned. The emotions roiled and mingled, dripping from his lips.

“Do you remember your mother?”

The scribe blinked, confusion writ on his face plain as the ink on his fingertips. “Yes, a stout woman. Severe at times. Then, who wouldn’t be, with muddy boots on rushes, six children, and a gruff husband. She was a wonderful cook. Sweetbreads, stew…” he trailed off.

“Interesting. I remember nothing. Well, not nothing. Perhaps… I don’t know that she was ever there in the traditional sense. Nor that she was stern. But I have mementos of her. The scent of bog peat in the summer. The whine of gnats in heat. The green throat of bull rushes pulling toward one another, reeds rubbing, chirping a symphony to the creak and croak of toad and frog.”

The scribe frowned even as his quill nib scratched against the parchment. Scritch scritch scritch. The utterance of print, the lexicon of language, each moment measured in quarts and distance. He thought about that thought, and decided if he had tried to write something worse, he couldn’t. This was it. Purple prose shitting itself against the wall, letting the words drip down like fly-ridden effluvia. He grunted once and scribbled, letting the ink blot out the words, obliterate the ephemeral bullshit. He could do better. He began again.

His mother was a swamp.

Fuck no. Another blot. This one nearly tearing the paper. He looked up apologetically, then motioned for the king to continue.

“My father? Very well. My father. Dry. Distant. Harsh. Hot. Rough. A hundred, a thousand adjectives, all too small or too large to fit him. Too wrong, and yet almost right.”

Better, the scribe thought. Filter out the frippery. He thought back to the beginning, thinking he would need to revise. He kept writing, the quill a small blur. He raised his free hand and spun his fingers, insisting the king go on, insisting on the continuance of story, the uninterrupted flow of idea.

“My childhood?” The king harrumphed, a sound of discontent. “What of yours?”

The scribe looked up, blinked. “I spent the majority of my early days weeding plots and cutting thatch. Sometimes, when the harvest finished, grain stacked and milled, and it was too soon to hang meat to dry, I played with the farm dogs, sometimes ran to the market and spent what few coins I had on paper and charcoal. My father nearly took my head off when he found them. He’d taught us letters, but not that they were much use beyond knowing how to read the proclamations and keep our heads down. He was determined to have more thatchers, more herds, more row workers. I was not.”

The king nodded, the great white mane of his hair bobbing. “I played. In caves and trees, in stone labyrinth and mossed battlefield. It wasn’t for lack of work, but lack of guidance. It was there I learned my first scraps of sorcery – how to bleed a man from his pores, how to twist his bones so he looked like a dog when viewed in the right light. How to chase the small dragonflies when they came near, and the way their thoraxes crunched under your molars.”

He leaned closer, the hilt of his blade tipping to one side, coming to rest against his thigh. “Do you wonder, dear man, how you and I diverged so?”

The scribe shrugged. “The fae are what they are.”

The king waved it away. “A useless tautology. I assumed a man of words would know better. We diverged because we wished it so. Would you have the strength to survive in my world? A wildling even among wild things? I would have withered in your world. Survived, yes, but never lived. You make your own reality, scribe.”

“You’re suggesting I wanted to be… normal?”

The king shrugged. “I’m suggesting you survived. Whether you lived or not is of your own mind to make up.”

“Interesting.” The scribe took a breath and frowned at the words he’d written. Clearer, cleaner. The king’s words stuck with him. Had he lived? Would he have touched magic and brought it into his breast in lieu of meat or love? He shrugged, muscle playing with its own landscape, and put quill to parchment.

“How did you become king?”

“How does anyone become king? Deceit, divine right, and inbreeding.”

The scribe raised an eyebrow, giving the king a look that said perhaps you’ve shared too much. For his part, he had moved on, head tilted toward the sun, perhaps gauging the time, perhaps trying to remember something once important, but now relegated to insignificance in the face of time.

“We have little time left. You may ask me one more,” he said.

The look in his eyes was predatory, the glint of light in the pupils like that of a hawk ready to strike, anticipation a hooked talon. The scribe screwed up his face, chewed on the tip of the quill. It had to be good. Lachlan’s press would pay by the word for the account of the stranger who had laid waste to Renfen’s entire army.

The scribe looked around, at the bodies that had begun to bloat in the sun, fat toadstools of flesh putrefying, ready to spill their red and glistening spoor. His gorge rose, a thick tide of boiled oats and greasy sausage, and he choked it back, looking away. How does someone do this? He glanced again, just from the corner of his eye, the look of a man who has seen a dangerous thought, and wonders if he looks at it full, would it cut his mind? Would it hollow his thoughts and lay him out in the sun with all these others, gibbering, until the grave-diggers came and found him playing with himself in the blood-dewed grass?

His eyes flicked back to the king, to the perfectly coiffed hair, the perfect vest and leggings, the codpiece that exaggerated more than just words. The king quirked a smile at the scribe as he caught him looking, and the scribe blushed. How?

No, the voice in his head answered, that part that when looking over the words later, corrected the incorrect, no. Why?

“Why?” The scribe echoed the word, letting it tumble from his lips in place of the vomit, and the king smiled this time.

“Finally, the heart of the matter. The marrow of the bone. Why.” He sat back, and the blade slipped to the ground, unnoticed. “Because. Because I can.”

“Surely there’s more?”

“Does there have to be?”

“For a sane man, for a man who wants to make sense of the words written here, of the world he describe, yes.”

“Then write this: there was a girl. Or maybe a boy. A promise. A lie. There was a death, and vengeance. There was a love unrequited. There was a dragon, and a sorcerer, and a crone. There was a fairy and a goblin, one pure, one corrupt. There was a labyrinth and a child. There was a battle. A kingdom lost, and an empire found. I was a king. I am a king. And I will do what I gods. Damn. Well. Please.”

While he spoke, dread wormed its way into the scribe’s heart, moving deeper and deeper until it sat entrenched like a barbed arrow. His eyes darted to the goblin king’s blade, and as every dismissal dripped from his lips, he forgot to write, forgot to put down the truth he saw. These were the words of a tyrant. He leaned forward, the king seemingly forgetting him in his rant. His fingers trembled, his arm ached, and then, the sword was in his hand, the grip both cool and gritty with dried blood and sand.

He raised the blade, intending to stab it into the king’s heart, to end the coming horror. Words tumbled from his lips, a short squall in the blazing heat of the king’s conviction.

“You’re mad. Madder than any who came before. A coming terror.”

And then the king stood above him, hand outstretched, and he saw the truth. Reality is what you make it, and the king had made his own. No simple warrior stood before the scribe, but a being that encompassed all things and rejected his. Neither and both. Terrible and frightening, powerful and irresistible. The scribe trembled, and the tip of the blade faltered, dipped, dipped… and ended in the dirt. The king took the blade from him, not ungently. He knelt next to the scribe, whose eyes had filled with tears. He spoke soft, his voice honeyed mead in the scribe’s ears.

“You can call me mad, a terror. I suppose those are true things in a way. Mercy for those who need it may seem like madness from the outside to those who do not desire succor. But I have sat to the side for so, so many years while men ground others to dirt, while they subjugated others at a whim, for money, for the color of their skin, for the way they speak, or the things they worship. You have letters and fine food and the strength of conviction. You have absolute conviction that what you do in the now is right, and yet cannot see past the horizon.

And yes, I provide mercy. I feel the question trembling on your lips. I relieve you of your burdens, of your convictions. I bring you the clarity of freedom.

You can write this, then, if it eases your heart: I do this for love. Love drives us all, and even love led these men to this field. Love led you here, did it not?”

The scribe, turning the words over in his head, nodded in agreement. He loved few things as he loved words. It had led him down paths both bright and dim, from under his family’s sheltering arms, from the beds of others who would have him as his own. He wandered still, searching for a specific love, and in wandering, found it – a country where rivers of ink flowed across a vellum landscape.

He picked up the scribe’s quill and pressed it into his hand. “Love will make or break a man. Love may shatter hearts and mend souls. Love can raise a people up or cast them into the gutter. Nothing worth doing is worth doing without it. I do this because I love.”

He leaned in and kissed the scribe just behind the ear, his lips soft and warm, and his breath smelling of clover. Then he straightened and sauntered away, leaving the scribe alone. He listened to the buzz of flies on the dead, a symphony of one-string violins, and then crumpled the paper, tossing it to the side, where it came to rest in a pool of clotting blood, the parchment pulling in the red until it blossomed like carnations across the rumpled surface. He watched it bloom, and then pulled a new sheet from his case, dipped his quill, and wrote:

The goblin king sat atop an outcrop of stone perched on a hill, his heart full of love.

Gray Mother

Her paws were cold, and her feet crunched in the snow as she walked, the crust under her claws unreliable, sometimes holding her weight, sometimes punching through and sending her into an uneven gait that caused her to sink into powder as high as her chest. When it happened, she would blow it away from her face with a snort, the ends of her whiskers tingling as ice crystals brushed against them, and dig in, her back legs kicking until she was on top again. It would tire her, and she’d stop when she reached a solid point, panting gently, stopping to lap at the powder until enough melted in her mouth, and she could ease the aching itch in her throat.

Wind stirred the powder, sending it swirling and spiraling in whorls and eddies, and shaking the boughs above her. Fat clods of snow fell from the branches and hit the ground with thick plopping sounds. Above her, a black bird shifted on its branch and fluttered its wings, trying to settle. It sighed.

“Will you not rest, Old Mother?”

It was the birds’ name for her, though she had been known by many. Waabishki-ma’iingan by the tall hunters in the summers, Long Fang by her packmates, and Ingashi by her litter, though they were long grown and in packs of their own these days. To the moon she had always simply been Grey, sister and daughter; mother, maiden, and crone. She craned her neck, catching the scents of deer and rabbit on the wind, and stared at the bird. She knew him only as Ebon.

“Over this next rise. We need to make better time. Maybe if you fly ahead. You can see if the pack is there.”

Ebon sighed again and fluttered his wings, then launched himself from the branch, sending more snow pattering to the ground. For a moment, the flap of his wings was loud in the clearing, and then they were gone. Grey settled on her haunches, watching the moon filter through the boughs overhead, sending skeletal fingers reaching into the white, a chiaroscuro sketch of murky futures. She lifted her head and sniffed, thinking maybe she would smell the dry dusting of Ebon’s feathers, or the carrion scent that clung to the hook of his beak, the points of his talons.

Too soon, she thought. Age and hunting had taught her patience in most things, but never in her need to be near family. Her mind drifted a little – it did that more these days, time unmooring and sending her down faded paths.

Blue-Eye had appeared in the spring grain, full of chest and tall, his withers wide and his teeth sharp. She had set her paws in the mud, green shoots tickling the pads, and lowered her head, her mouth set, her legs wide. She let a low rumble escape her chest, the sound like rocks tumbling in a stream. He paused and turned his head, one blue eye shining over his thick muzzle, the other a circle of fur bounded by a thick seam of scar. He turned his head and opened his mouth, tongue lolling out, as though he thought her challenge amusing.

Grey bounded forward, intending to teach him that she had little to do with joking, and more to do with keeping intruders from her pack. She leapt, and he stepped out of the way, banging his head into her ribs, and bringing his paws onto her side. She coughed out a surprised bark as she landed on her back in the mud, and he nipped her throat – not enough to draw blood, but a message nonetheless. She lay still, waiting, and he licked her face once, then tore off through the high grass. A fierce sort of something rose in her, and she found her feet and gave chase, wheat whipping by to either side, his musk in her nose, his hard breath ahead of her.

And then – and then there he was, waiting, and she rolled him this time, catching his throat in her jaws, a playful growl escaping her. After a moment, she let up, and he bounced to his feet. They stared at one another, that striking blue eye honest, and came together.

The memory faded, and Grey looked to the sky. Stars, unseen before, peeked through cracks in the clouds. There was a story her people told themselves sometimes, after a hunt, when the elders would lie in warm circles, and the pups wrestled among the pines. It was the story of Amarok. They said when the world was all forest, before the tall hunters, it was full of prey. Others abided there, the bear and the hawk, and darker – the wendigo and the alakwis. They said that when Amarok was just a pup, the wendigo took his father and gave him a hunger that could only be sated with his own people’s flesh. Wild and alone, Amarok’s father – Rust – fled to the wood, fearful that he should swallow his family and devour his pups.

In time, he was all but forgotten as the pack moved on, though it was said they could hear him moving behind them always, his paws scrabbling on the rough bark shed by ancient trees, claws clicking on stony hillsides. They whispered they could hear his rough growl behind the gorse and heather, and glimpse his shadow, hunched by hunger behind the thick maples. So, they moved, always moving, not letting He Who Lurks catch their throats.

Then, they began to fall. First, the old and infirm. Packmates rendered slow by the river of time, hobbled by nature, or sick with any number of things that could creep up and take the honorable in a dishonorable way. No one said more than was necessary. No one slowed their pace. It was the Way. The Way said you moved on. And on. And those who fell were left behind. Not forgotten, not discarded. Their time had come, and it was up to the Mother to reclaim them. There was no dishonor in death, for it came for all.

But Amarok knew better. He saw better. He saw how when the weak fell, a shadow fell over them. He saw jaws, dark and red, reach from the dark places between boles and snatch a leg, tear a tendon. And still he ran with the pack.

It was a clear night when his father came among them, sleeping in their groups. He stalked among the kits and whelplings, and his head would dip, coming back up with jaws working. He had grown lean in the intervening years. His ribs stood out in stark relief, his spine bristling. Rust’s eyes held a yellowish sheen, his teeth stained brown, and his saliva ran in rivulets from half-open jaws. Madness had settled in him like a thorn in flesh, and as his head swiveled side to side, he saw only prey – an entire world for the eating.

Amarok stood, and approached, head down, teeth bared. His father, if he recognized his son, slavered and snapped, and opened his jaws wide, a maw that reeked of black death and rot. Seeing his chance, Amarok dove in, for his father was huge – the largest wolf that had lived until that point – and Amarok fit between his teeth easily. He traveled down his father’s slick throat, into the furnace of his stomach. Once there, he ripped and tore, he rent and bled his father among the corpses of his litter-mates, and with a final howl, tore free of the beast’s stomach, rebirthed in savagery.

When the other wolves saw what he had done, they voiced their joy to the moon, the Mother, and she took notice. For each thing that Rust had devoured, she placed their souls in the sky and set them to burn so that all would know the good Amarok had done.

“Amarok. It is a good story.”

The wolf that stood apart from her was black, his eyes the green of the forest in summer. He settled to his haunches in the shadow between two great oaks. Grey watched him warily. She was not startled, though she hadn’t heard him approach, and was not surprised, though he seemed to know her thoughts. Grey had lived long enough to know that things worked that way in the world. There were certainly more things beneath the stars and between the shadows of the trees than could be accounted for, even in her long life.

“I am waiting for my friend,” she replied, as if that explained everything.

The black wolf looked out toward the rolling hills in the distance, trees clinging to them like bristling hairs. Snow had begun to drift down again in lazy see-saws.

“It may be a while.”

Grey sniffed the air again, and smelled only ice on the wind and the hours-old passage of prey. “My pack…” she began.

“Will be fine without you for a while.” It was the black wolf’s turn to raise his head and sniff slightly at the air.

“Tell me, Old Mother, aren’t you tired?”

The question rankled her. It was not their way to complain. Of the heat, or of the snow. Of the scarcity of the hunt, or the ache from old wounds. It was not their way to give voice to doubt or pain, or to whisper even to the wind of the way their joints ached with age, the way their paws no longer gripped tight to rocky land, or the way their vision sometimes blurred when something moved too fast before them. Despite that, all those things were true, and she kept her silence.

Instead, she turned her thoughts to Blue-Eye. She thought of his humor and his strength, his ferocity. She thought of the time they cornered a bear who had been harassing the fringes of the pack, snapping and snarling, pushing it back despite its size. And Blue-Eye, stupid, brave, funny Blue-Eye, had grown bold. He moved too close, lunging at the beast’s midsection, and it swatted him. It hammered him back like a tail would swat a fly, and – red fell, carmine and bloody in its fierceness. When they found her, she was bleeding, her ribs ached, and her leg would not support her weight. And beside her, the bear, its throat a ruin. Despite the pain, she stood over Blue-Eye, stood until she could no more, and when darkness fell, laid her head on the still-soft mat of his fur, resting until his soul burned among the stars.

Her thoughts turned to her cubs, loyal to pack and family, strong and good. They led packs of their own now – Sharp-Tooth and Little Bear and Red Sister. She thought of the days they frolicked in the long grass, and through crisp castoff leaves in autumn. She thought of the times she had brought down countless deer and rabbit, moving aside to share the kill, of the times she could only find squirrel or vole, and went hungry herself that they might be full and warm a night.

“Your love, your children. Where would they be without you?” He stood and began to pace a slow circle around her, passing into light and shadow, light and shadow. “Would things have gone differently? Have you only spared them what fate might have allowed given time?”

She growled then and bared her fangs. They were still sharp, despite age, her jaws still strong.

“Rest, Old Mother, rest and let time do its work. You need not worry. Time and age and the wind bring change to all things. Surely, you are tired?”

Even as he spoke, she felt the ache of years in her hips, the weight of a paunch gained from children, the soreness of teats that had never seemed to heal all the way after whelping. She felt them, and ignored them, and pushed herself to her feet, bracing against the shooting pain from the scars above her ribs.

“Yet you stand.” The sound that followed was a sigh. “Come then, Old Mother. Come and test your teeth against my throat.”

She moved, fast, but he was faster, and her jaws only scraped him while he snapped in and opened a wound in her leg. Crimson spattered white snow, steaming slightly in the chill night. She limped to the side and let him come at her, his head low, wide like a viper’s. She let him bull in, teeth opening a new wound on her scars, and she twisted, lowering her jaws, closing them tight around his throat. He yelped, and tried to pull away, but she held on tight despite his claws raking at her, front and back, making a red ruin of her fur. Grey shook her head, a mixture of snarl and whimper escaping her lips. Still, the black wolf fought her, opening wound upon wound as he struggled from her jaws.

For his part, it was useless. These were jaws that had felled countless prey, that had torn the throat from the beast who took her lover. They were jaws that had protected and killed for her cubs. She shook her head one last time, the action sending a ripple of pain up her spine, and with a final crack, the other wolf went limp. He ceased to struggle, and she dropped the limp bundle of fur.

Grey paced a few steps, and sagged to the snow, not caring that beneath her it grew warm and sticky, thick with her blood. She looked up, to the stars, and one among them winked blue. She chuffed out a soft greeting. Somewhere distant, drawing closer, like a chinook through the trees, came the sound of wings. After a moment, Ebon landed near.

“My pack?”

He cocked his head, taking in the scene. He seemed to process it, and then take it in stride. “Further, just beyond the hills.”

“Thank you.” She pushed herself to her feet, her body aching. She thought of the pack, alone in the night, and began to walk, the raven close behind.

Her War Heart

She had seven hearts, each in a velvet lined box of hardwood stained the color of clotted blood. She walked among them, fingers tracing the carved lids, and wondered which she would need today. She thought of the witch in the woods, the gnarled crone she had met when she was a little girl, and her sharp knife and promises.

“You will be different. You will be strong. The men will not dare lay their hands on your flesh, or speak promises only to be broken as soon as they are soft.”

The knife glittered in the dark, then slipped between her ribs, opening her like a puzzle box, bone sliding aside, breastbone opening as a lock under a key. Curiously, it did not hurt, and she only watched in dispassion as the old woman took her first heart – her true heart – and lifted it, glistening in the firelight. She placed it in a sack and told Agnes to bury it in the thick peat between the roots of a cypress tree, and when she was finished, to guard its secret well. After, she was to return once a year, for the old woman to give her a new heart, each a distillation of those things that made life worth living.

Seven years, seven hearts, and this year she returned. She never asked the old witch what she wanted in return. Agnes knew already. When she would visit, she would tidy the cabin, brush the old woman’s long hair, still shining a deep gold, and rub the calluses on her feet. She would prepare dinner, and they would sup together, and when they were finished, the old witch – Greta – would disappear into her bedroom while crepuscular light crept in through the windows. She would rummage around for a bit, and when she returned, a new box would be in her hands, the wood stained and polished to a shine.

Now, it was nearly another year, and she had laid out her dress, a light thing printed with flowers, and tall boots, for Greta lived in the forest past the fields, and the mud could creep up your ankles and into your shoes, and if it had been a wet spring, sometimes it climbed to your knees, sucking at your legs like a drunk sucks at a bone, trying to pull the meat and marrow from you.

Agnes wondered which heart to wear – joy, for the laughter she shared with the witch, or stoicism to accept that time was passing, and soon enough even Greta’s time would come to an end. It was something Agnes hadn’t considered when she was younger. The witch of the woods had always seemed immortal, especially when Agnes had been young, Great had still been very old. But the fact was that time crept on, and even the very old and powerful weren’t immune to its ravages.

Maybe sorrow, then? She shook her head. Too much. Too painful. Outside, someone was ringing the warning bell in the square, drawing her from her thoughts. A rabble of voices drifted on the wind, and Agnes peeked her head from a shutter to see what the stir was about. The sky had turned the orange red of a summer storm, and the wind had the tang of ozone. In the square below, someone had gathered a large crowd, and Agnes squinted to see who it was.

Gunter, the town constable, was standing on the platform usually used for mayoral announcements, his bald pate shining in the still sunny day, wisps from the salt and pepper fringe blowing around his scalp. His face was red – redder than the normal flush from drink – and he clutched a burlap sack in one gloved hand. Most of the town was gathered around, summer dress fluttering in the warm zephyr, men with shirts unlaced and hats in hand, some still holding pitchforks and hoes. Agnes frowned. This must have been called in a hurry.

Gunter raised his voice to a stentorian bellow. “There is an abomination in our midst!”

The crowd muttered and shuffled their feet. They’d heard this before, two summers ago when Gunter had been appointed constable, and he was eager to hunt out evil in a town of less than a hundred people. He’d insisted there was a witch in the woods, and that she lured in unsuspecting children, then devoured them whole. Agnes had laughed at the pronouncement, as had most of the village, though her reasons were different. The thought of Greta, a woman who subsisted on bread and roots, eating a lamb shank, let alone a child, was ridiculous.

Gunter had turned a deep red at the scoffing, throwing an accusatory finger in their faces. “You’ll see! When your crops wither and your children grow wan, you’ll see!”

He’d stomped off in a blind fury, and Agnes had crept away that night to tell Greta of his speech. The old woman worked a spell that summer, with sea salt and bread, with bone and earth, that strengthened the crops and made the children hale. When the village saw the opposite of what Gunter claimed, they mocked him in the street, calling him ‘Old Man Wind’, a reference to the storms he would blow but never break.

Now he stood in the town square, and the burlap sack in his hand writhed, and a pit of dread sat in Agnes’s stomach, because she could see the mud on his boots and the scratches on his arms. He glared around at the muttering and reached into the bag, and her stomach clenched even tighter. With a triumphant sound, he pulled his prize free, the crimson muscle still beating in the sunlight. Agnes gasped, echoing the townspeople.

“A witch, I told you! A heartless witch, and if she is bold enough to walk among us with no heart, what must she be planning for your children? Hannah? Your Ruth, is she well? Martin, your Jon, has he not been ill? Look among you!”

They began to glance at one another.

“Who among you is missing? Who among you would not deign to show her face for the good of the village?”

All eyes turned to Agnes’ home, and she blanched, pulling her head back into the room and slamming the shutter closed. Too late though – she knew they had seen her, and now she wondered what was to be next. Outside, the muttering had risen to a clamor, and she bolted downstairs with a jolt of fear, managing to slam the bar across her door as the first stone hit it.

They came in a flurry, a rainstorm of stones slamming into her door, breaking slats from the shutters and rattling against the roof and cupboard. There were shouts for her to come out, for her to make their children well, for her to end her life. She ran upstairs and threw her tiny closet open, looking at each heart in turn. Which could she use? Innocence? They’d never believe it. Joy? She’d appear a lunatic. Sorrow? They’d think her being contrite a false face, and after all, what did she have to be contrite about? Living? She’d never brought them harm.

Smoke trickled between the floorboards, and panic seized her limbs. Leaving the hearts behind, Agnes barreled down the stairs, seeing that the front door had been lit, the walls now smoking too as the townspeople piled brush and lumber against them. She banged on the door and shouted.

“You know me! Harold – I taught your children! Jane – who nursed your little ones when you had the pox?”

No response came, and she tried to kick the door down, to flee, but they had nailed it tight. The fire was under the house now, and the floorboards smoked and spat as the flames took them. She fled up the stairs, thinking to jump from a window, but when she threw the shutter, saw that the townsfolk had surrounded her house, some with their bows, and watched as it burned.

Weeping, she sat on the floor and curled up into a ball. Surely they would relent. Surely they would spare her. This was just a lesson. She had harmed no one. She had done nothi-

The floor collapsed, spilling her into the fire.

*

She had been in the forest. She couldn’t remember why. Her mother had died? Her father? They were both gone now, gone and away, and she was alone, and there was no one to tell her not to play there, so she did. When she found the path, neat and winding between the boles of ancient oaks and maples, she took it, feet crunching on leaves shed the season before. Past another turn, the third in the path, she saw a tidy cottage, small and cozy, smoke rising from the chimney. Being neither warned nor afraid of such things, she knocked. The woman who answered the door was dressed in black, her hair gold, her hands wizened. She smiled, and let the girl in.

“Do I know you?” The woman asked.

Agnes shook her head.

“Would I like to?” The woman asked.

Agnes nodded.

“What is your name, little one?”

“Agnes, but my mother always called me Aggie.”

“Well, then Aggie, come in and sit with an old woman. I am Greta.”

“What will we do?”

“Sup, and talk, and in the end, if you’re very good, I’ll show you a bit of magic.”

Agnes thought she would like that very much, and stepped into the cottage, the door closing behind her.

*

Somehow, she survived. Though, she was burned badly, her skin scorched down to muscle – that didn’t hurt as much – cold numbed those parts of her. In others, great blisters had risen, and her hair had been burned down to stubble. She wept a little when she woke. Part from the pain, part from the loss. She had lost her home, her friends, her hearts. When she was done, she crawled through the rubble until she could see the field behind her house, and beyond that, the forest. She listened, though it was a rest day, and no one toiled in the fields, or walked the streets, and she breathed a sigh of relief. When night fell, she crawled further, into the mud of the field, into the long grasses and stinging insects which stung a little less in comparison to the great ache in her body, and over hard stone, each movement causing her to gasp and writhe. Finally, she made it to the forest, and collapsed under the shade of a massive oak, its branches spread wide.

She lay there, cool leaves and earth pressing into her back, and stared at the stars between the boughs. She wondered if their fire was as hot as the one that had burned her, and found she was glad they were distant. A shadow moved into her line of sight, blocking them, and after a moment, cawed gently at her. She stared at it until it cawed again, fluttered its wings, and hopped to a nearby tree, another soft caw escaping it. I hopped from one foot to another and looked at her expectantly.

With a sigh and a painful heave, Agnes rolled over and crawled along the ground, not trusting her legs yet. She made way in slow movements that drug her skin across broken twigs and raspy leaves until she was under the tree. The bird moved on, waiting. She followed. They did this for some time, night passing into dawn as Agnes moved inch by agonizing inch along the forest floor. Finally, the sun broke the horizon, and she found herself clutching the bottom of Greta’s door. With what strength she had left, she scratched at the wood, hoping the old woman would hear. Then, she went to sleep, satisfied she had come as far as she could, and the night would bear out the rest.

*

When she woke, she was ensconced in Greta’s soft goose down bed, the mattress like a cloud. She looked around the room and saw that it was much like her own. A bed, dresser, nightstand, and a small closet. She wondered at the contents, considered asking now that she was in the woman’s room, but then Greta came in bearing a steaming bowl, and she let it drop. The other woman propped her head up and spooned broth between her lips. It was good, filling, and left a trickle of warmth that grew into a comfortable blanket when she was finished. Her eyelids grew heavy.

“I should have seen this coming,” Greta was saying.

Agnes shook her head weakly. “Not their fault.”

Greta waved that away. “Bah. People are dumb and panicky, and cruel when they believe lies. Sleep now, for a little longer. I have a gift for you.”

Agnes let the lassitude wash over her.

*

When she woke, it was alone. She felt stronger, enough to sit up and look around. In the bed was a box, the top carved with a flame. A note sat beside it.

“This is your war heart,” it read. “It is time you took your own back.”

Agnes opened the box, and inside was a heart the color of fire. It glowed gently, not a peaceful white like joy, or blue like sorrow, but a deep angry red, and when she held it in her hands, it was hot to the touch. It frightened her a little. Still, she opened her chest and placed it within, and when it began to beat, she felt strength flood her limbs, her pain dissipating. She threw off her covers, and opened Greta’s closet. Inside was a cloak and a blade, and she took both. The cloak was black and felt light as shadow, the blade white and bright as the moon. She stalked out of the hut and into the night.

*

She stood at the edge of the village and cried out for Gunter. He came on the third try, his face red, his hair disheveled. In one hand, he held his cutlass. In the other, the burlap sack. He stared at her, recognition not lighting his face. A crowd had begun to gather behind him, and when she swept the hood of the cloak back, they gasped. He stepped back and raised his sword, leaving the heart in the dirt.

“My heart, please.” Moonlight glimmered on her blade.

“Witch!” He spat.

Gunter lunged, his face alight with fanaticism, a fever that refused to break. She stepped out of the way and the war heart surged. Her limbs moved like clockwork, and she swept his head from his shoulders. His corpse tumbled to the ground.

“My heart, please.” She repeated it. A bold farmer, thick with ropy muscle, tried what the older man couldn’t, taking up his blade. Agnes ended him as well, and someone cried out.

“My heart. Please!” It was no longer a request, but a command, and yet no one moved to obey the woman cloaked in shadow.

“My heart!” Rage surged through her. The war heart whispered to her. She was born to kill. She was born to end. She would burn the world. She raised the blade and took a single step forward. The crowd shrank back, and she silently cursed them for cowards.

A voice, small and curious cracked the surface of her rage. “This heart?”

A child, no older than she had been when she’d met Greta held out her heart. Agnes nodded and knelt. From somewhere in the crowd, the girl’s mother wept, but Agnes had no time for her. She took her heart and stood, then leaned in, speaking in the girl’s ear.

“If you need, find me in the woods.”

With that, she stood and left the village in somber silence. Behind her, a choked sob escaped, or a muttered curse, but none reached her ears. She traveled light, and when she entered the tree line, disappeared altogether.

*

In the cabin, she placed her war heart in a chest, and sat beside the old woman who had given it to her, her body still cooling in her chair. She brushed her hair and rubbed her feet, then wrapped her in linens and buried her between the roots of the cypress trees. When she returned to the cabin, she put her old heart in her chest, and her new in the tiny closet, and waited. In time, she would have enough joy and sorrow, love and hate, and all the other things that make life worth living, and she would give them to a young woman to learn their lessons.