No True Way Page 29

  And nearly fainted. Because now, there wasn’t a single monster on the road between the houses, there were two. And the second one was a spider as big as the first.

  She had no time to think of anything except to pray to whatever gods were listening that the two of them would manage to kill each other, when the spider attacked.

  She couldn’t have told how long the battle raged. The spider was agile and fast, just as agile and fast as the hairy thing. And it could jump like nothing she had ever seen before, managing to keep its relatively fragile legs out of the way of talon-swipes by amazing leaps backward. This frustrated the lizard-creature no end, and that, eventually was its undoing.

  That was when the spider struck.

  It made a tremendous leap and landed for a moment on the lizard-thing’s back. Its head bobbed, and two enormous fangs plunged into the lizard’s neck on either side of the spine. Then it leaped off again as the lizard screamed in pain, and it paused three wagon-lengths away—

  —waiting.

  The lizard turned to face it, but it was moving as if it was dizzy or sick. It roared, or tried to, but the sound came out choked. Then it staggered toward the spider, taking only three steps, before it collapsed in the street, spasmed once, and died.

  Oh, hellfires. Now we have an even worse problem—

  But then, completely out of nowhere, came that silvery voice. :It is safe to come out, Healer. The thing is dead.:

  She gasped—and the first thing that sprang up into her mind, after that burst of total astonishment, was that she had to get out into the street, fast, or there was no telling what the people in the other cottages might do to the weird creature that had turned out to be their savior.

  She slid down the ladder, ran for the door, threw it open, and pelted out into the street, running past the carcass of the monster—and just in time. Old Taffy had emerged with a face full of fear and a torch and a pitchfork in his hands, and she flung herself between him and the spider, heedless of her own safety.

  “Stop! You damn fool!” she shrilled, and spread-eagled herself in front of the spider’s strange face, right between two of the hairy legs. “This is a friend!”

  Taffy’s jaw dropped, as did the jaws of the other three men who had come, armed, out of their cottages. And for a long, silent moment, they all stood staring at each other, while the giant spider remained behind Vixen, not moving a muscle.

  Finally Taffy lowered his pitchfork. “Damn, Healer,” he finally said. “I allus knowed ye was strange, but ye bain’t half as strange as yer friends!”

  * * *

  By the time dawn came, Vixen had spent most of the night “speaking” for the spider, who had gone from terror to heroine. When she began to shiver, someone had brought a brazier of coals she could hover over, as she told her short story in her silvery Mindvoice and Vixen related it.

  It seemed that she, like a few other hunting spider species, could winter over if she had a cave deep enough. But she had lost hers when the entrance collapsed over the summer, and she had been searching desperately for another. She had just about given up finding one when she “heard” Vixen’s call for help.

  :I thought—if I must die, at least I shall either die in combat saving you, or—at least die having saved you,: she said solemnly. When Vixen related that, choking up a little and surprising herself with her stinging eyes, the entire hamlet rose up in protest.

  “Nah, tell the darlin’ we won’t let her die, Healer!” Taffy protested. “We’ll think of somethin’! Mebbe we can raise a barn afore it gets too cold—”

  “Pa—” said his youngest son.

  “Or mebbe we can fit ’er inter a cellar—”

  “Pa—”

  “Or—”

  “Pa!”

  “What?” Taffy spluttered.

  “I know where there’s a cave!” the boy crowed. “I kin show ye!”

  It had to wait until dawn, though. In the meantime, warmed by the coals, the spider waited patiently. By that point, the potion had worn off, and Vanyel had managed to come out to see the marvel, hopping along on a pair of improvised crutches.

  When dawn came, an odd procession formed up: Taffy’s boy Grek in the lead, Vanyel on Yfandes following, and Taffy and everyone else behind them. Vixen and the spider followed behind. By this time they all had given the spider a name: Melody. Vixen had suggested it, the spider liked it, and the rest of the village agreed to it.

  :This is . . . so kind of you all,: the spider said, in her beautiful Mindvoice. :Even if it isn’t suitable, I . . . no one has ever been so kind to me except the tervardi.:

  Vixen didn’t know what a tervardi was, but evidently it was some other race living in the Pelagiris. :If it isn’t suitable, I have the suspicion that they’ll get shovels and dig until it is,: she told the spider. :And you deserve nothing less.:

  She sensed that Melody was going to say something else, but at that point, Grek cried out, “Here ’tis!” and the crowd parted to let the two of them come up to the front.

  It was mostly a wide crack in the rock of a hill, just big enough for an active boy to squeeze into . . . but there was a damp breath of air coming from it, and the spider seemed to perk up at that. The boy pointed to the top of the hill, where a forest giant lay. “That there tree come down in that big storm two moons ago, an’ cracked open yon rock,” he said. “I squoze in, on’y went in as fur as I could afore I lost light, but I think it goes back a good long bit!”

  :It . . . might be suitable!: the spider said, hope and doubt warring in her Mindvoice. :I will look!:

  Nearly everyone’s jaws dropped, as the enormous spider sidled up to the crack and somehow squeezed herself through it. There was a long silence, and a very long time of waiting. Vixen’s hope rose, the longer it took.

  :It’s perfect!: came the long awaited answer, which she relayed.

  The waiting crowd broke out in a cheer.

  The spider squeezed herself back out again. Taffy approached her himself this time. “Miz Melody, I reckon I can speechify for all of us. We’d . . . we’d like ye to stay around here. If ye’d be willin’, that is.” He looked round at the others, who all nodded. “This ain’t the first nasty thing we’ve had turn up, an’ it’d be a damn fine thing t’hev our own critter that’d take on the bad ’uns. We’ll make sure this here cave never closes up, if ye’ll stay.”

  The spider froze. :They—want me? They really want me?:

  “They wouldn’t offer if they didn’t,” Vixen pointed out.

  Vanyel cleared his throat, and they all looked at him. “The only difficulty I can see is communication once Healer Vixen is gone,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about that, and I think I might have a solution.” He closed his eyes, and held out one hand for a moment, and a faint blue glow appeared in the air, then settled over the spider and melded with it.

  There was a long silence. Then, “He—hello?” came a silvery little voice from just above the spider’s head.

  “Sorted,” said Vanyel, and sighed. “It seems that is the only contribution I can make,” he added, ruefully. “I hope word about this never gets around. It would not make a very good song.”

  Vixen didn’t understand what that was all about, but everyone else seemed to find that hilarious. So while the men of the hamlet slightly—but only slightly—opened the crack and reinforced it so that it was unlikely to close up or collapse, the spider came back to the village and . . . ate the monster. It was rather odd. It seemed the venom she had injected into it had liquefied the thing’s insides and she was able to suck it dry, leaving mostly bones and skin. Vanyel excused himself. Vixen found it fascinating, and so did almost everyone else who came to watch. But then again, in a hamlet full of people who hunted the Pelagiris, there weren’t likely to be too many people who were squeamish.

  Someone carted off the hide and bones, which would presum
ably end up cured and traded at some point, and the spider, abdomen swollen with a meal that would easily see her through her hibernation, returned to the cave. She squeezed in again, and the last Vixen saw of her was a leg waving goodbye from the crack, and that silvery voice saying, “Thank you, my good and true friends! I will see you in the spring!”

  By then, it was almost noon and everyone was exhausted. By common consent, the entire hamlet retreated to their cottages to sleep.

  * * *

  “What would you think about the two of us continuing the Circuit together?” Vanyel asked, a few days later.

  By this time, of course, Vixen knew that he didn’t mean anything other than that; it didn’t take a Healer long to notice whether one of her patients was—what did they call it now?—ah, shaych.

  “Why do you ask?” she replied, satisfied with the progress her Healing treatments were having. In a sennight or so, he’d be fit to ride, though she’d want him to wear a brace inside his boot for a while, just for safety’s sake.

  “If you come with me, you can use the Waystations,” he pointed out. “The two of us can watch each others’ backs. Your Animal Mindspeech will be more useful than any of my Gifts if there are any nasty Pelagiris creatures out there. And people often tell Healers things they won’t tell a Herald. I don’t mind holding our pace back so we don’t tire out your horse.”

  He smiled charmingly at her. “You are both an excellent Healer and an excellent person in an emergency situation, Vixen. You’re quite brave. You had no hesitation in throwing yourself between the humans and what anyone else would have considered a monster once you knew the truth of the matter. I’d trust your judgment, and I would trust you as a partner in any situation I can think of.”

  “Hmm,” she replied, “Let me think this over. . . .”

  He had several good points. It was safer for two to ride this Circuit than one. Heralds were often summoned to places where Healers were needed—or would be needed. Being able to use the Waystations between villages and hamlets would be much more comfortable than camping—although he probably knew or guessed she had no compunction about using a Waystation anyway rather than camp in the open in the fall and winter. And people did tell Healers things they would never tell a Herald—things a Herald often needed to know.

  “I can make sure we’re here in good time to bring the spider out of her hibernation,” he added.

  But he would be riding the full Circuit. Which meant he would be stopping at Hartrise. . . .

  She thought about that. Really stared the idea right in the proverbial eye. And slowly, she came to the conclusion that . . . she was all right with that. Or, at least, she wasn’t going to let it stop her. In fact . . .

  . . . in fact, it would do no harm, and might do a lot of good, for her to have a good look at the Healer in Hartrise and make sure he was up to snuff. He’d been coasting without having to account for what he was doing—or not doing—along enough. Maybe he was fine. Maybe he was excellent. But if he wasn’t, well, it was about time he got a taste of a signature Vixen lecture.

  And she’d have a lot of insights into Hartrise that might come in handy for the Herald as well.

  “That’s not a bad idea at all,” she said, at last, looking up to see Vanyel’s satisfied nod. “I think I’ll take you up on it. Just remember, if you’re an idiot, you’ll get a piece of my mind about it.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” said Herald Vanyel.

  About the Authors

  Dylan Birtolo resides in the Pacific Northwest where he spends his time as a writer, a gamer, and a professional sword-swinger. His thoughts are filled with shape shifters, mythological demons, and epic battles. He’s published a couple of fantasy novels and several short stories. He trains with the Seattle Knights, an acting troop that focuses on stage combat, and has performed in live shows, videos, and movies. He jousts, and yes, the armor is real—it weighs more than 100 pounds. You can read more about him and his works at www.dylanbirtolo.com or follow his twitter at @DylanBirtolo.

  Jennifer Brozek is an award-winning editor, game designer, and author. She has been writing role-playing games and professionally publishing fiction since 2004. With the number of edited anthologies, fiction sales, RPG books, and nonfiction books under her belt, Jennifer is often considered a Renaissance woman, but she prefers to be known as a wordslinger and optimist. Read more about her at www.jenniferbrozek.com or follow her on Twitter at @JenniferBrozek.

  Ron Collins’ work has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Dragon, Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine, and Flights of Fantasy (edited by Mercedes Lackey). Last year he celebrated the publication of Five Magics, a short collection of his fantasy work. Of “Nwah,” he writes: “Back in college I wrote an essay completely from the point of view of a leopard visiting a watering hole that has been lost to the nuances of time. I loved the feel of that piece, and always wanted to do it again. With ‘Nwah,’ I got that chance.”

  Brenda Cooper is a science fiction and fantasy writer, a technology professional, and a working futurist whose primary concern is the environment. Brenda lives in the Pacific Northwest in a family with many dogs and women. Her most recent novels are The Creative Fire and The Diamond Deep, both out from Pyr. Her next novel, The Edge of Dark, will also be published by Pyr. For more information, see www.brenda-cooper.com.

  Dayle A. Dermatis has been called “one of the best writers working today” by USA Today bestselling author Dean Wesley Smith. Under various pseudonyms (and sometimes with co-authors), she’s sold several novels and more than 100 short stories in multiple genres. Her latest novel is the urban fantasy Ghosted. She lives and works in California within scent of the ocean, and in her spare time follows Styx around the country and travels the world, all of which inspires her writing. She loves music, cats, Wales, TV, magic, laughter, and defying expectations. To find out where she is today, check out www.DayleDermatis.com.

  Rosemary Edghill is the keeper of the Eddystone Light, corny as Kansas in August, normal as blueberry pie, and only a paper moon. She was found floating down the Amazon in a hatbox, and, because criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot, she became a creature of the night (black, terrible). She began her professional career working as a time-traveling vampire killer and has never looked back. She’s also a New York Times Bestselling Writer, and hangs out on Facebook a lot.

  Rebecca Fox always wanted to be John Carter of Mars when she grew up, because of the giant birds. Since that career path didn’t look like it was going to pan out anytime soon, she got her Ph.D. in Animal Behavior instead. She makes her home in Lexington, Kentucky, where she shares her life with three parrots, a Jack Russell terrier named Izzy, and the world’s most opinionated chestnut mare. When she isn’t writing, Rebecca teaches college biology and spends a lot of time outdoors doing research on bird behavior.

  Cedric Johnson was born and raised in Lincoln, Nebraska, where he began writing short stories and poetry at an early age. He developed his writing, layout, and editing skills during high school, staffing its award-winning annual literary magazine From the Depths, before moving on to short stories and novels in the genres of fantasy, science fiction, and cyberpunk. He has contributed to the recent Elemental Masters anthologies Elemental Magic and Elementary. He currently resides in Commerce City, Colorado, where he continues to write while working with other forms of digital media, including 3D modeling and virtual world communications.

  Michele Lang writes supernatural tales: the stories of witches, lawyers, goddesses, bankers, demons, and other magical creatures hidden in plain sight. She is the author of the apocalyptic adventure Netherwood and other stories set in the Netherwood universe, as well as the Lady Lazarus historical fantasy series. Michele lives in a small town on the North Shore of Long Island with her family and a rotating menagerie of cats, hermit crabs, and butterflies.

/>   Fiona Patton was born in Calgary, Alberta, Canada and grew up in the United States. She now lives in rural Ontario with her partner, Tanya Huff, two glorious dogs, and a pride of very small lions. She has written seven fantasy novels for DAW Books, and is currently working on the first book of a new series entitled The King’s Eagle.

  Diana L. Paxson’s first short story was published in Isaac Asimov’s Fantasy Magazine in 1978. Since then she has published many others, including several in anthologies edited by Mercedes Lackey. She is also the author of twenty-nine novels, among them the Chronicles of Westria, The White Raven and the Wodan’s Children trilogy. In addition to writing, she paints, plays the harp, and knows enough about weaving to realize that it is harder than it looks.

  Kristin Schwengel lives near Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with her husband, the obligatory writer’s cat (named Gandalf, of course), and a Darwinian garden in which only the strong survive. Her collection of hobby accoutrements includes several spindles, one of which has a whorl of green dragon’s-vein agate, the inspiration for Stardance’s treasured amber. Her writing has appeared in several previous Valdemar anthologies, and Stardance’s story began with “Warp and Weft” in Under the Vale.

  Stephanie D. Shaver lives in Southern California with her husband, daughter, and two geriatric cats. She works as a producer for Blizzard Entertainment, and spends her free time tinkering in the kitchen, camping out, and exploring new and exciting ways to kill plants in her garden. She should probably be working on a novel.

  Louisa Swann was born on an Indian reservation in northern California, and spent the first six months of her life in a papoose carrier. Determined not to remain a basket case forever, she escaped the splintered confines, finally settling down on a ranch where she spins tales that range from light to dark and back again. Louisa’s writerly eccentricities have resulted in numerous short story publications in various anthologies. Find out more at www.louisaswann.com.