FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 6

  She reached the stable in less than a minute and ducked inside. Amazingly, the place was empty. Wasting no time, she saddled one of her father’s coursers; fast horses bred for the hunt. It wasn’t easy to mount carrying her baby, but she managed it somehow, and then they were out, racing away with the wind whipping her hair.

  They rode across the castle yard and through the gatehouse. There were men and horses gathered outside but she caught them by surprise and was past before they could try to stop her. Looking back over her shoulder she could see them mounting to follow, shouting at her to stop. She paid them no heed and rode on, flying headlong into the night.

  She rode through shadows and darkness, pushing her mount, hoping to outdistance her pursuers. Sometime near dawn her horse faltered and nearly fell, forcing her to stop. She dismounted hastily before her mount collapsed; she had ridden it to death. The horse was blowing and its mouth was covered in froth, but she had no time to mourn it. It sank to its knees, and trying hard not to think, Elena opened the artery in its neck, giving it a quick release.

  I have seen nothing but death this night, and I have nothing but more of it ahead of me, she thought. Another day she might have shed tears to have slain such a beautiful animal, but there were none left in her. She lifted her son and began to walk. As the hours drew on, the pain in her belly grew worse, ‘till it felt as though her stomach was on fire. Something was broken inside, but she could only hope it wasn’t enough to kill her before she reached Lancaster.

  The Duke of Lancaster was her father’s liege-lord and the closest place she could hope to find refuge. Eventually she found herself on the road again, and she walked eastward into the rising sun. She was uncertain where she had met the road, so she couldn’t be sure how many more miles it was to reach Lancaster. She kept walking. She could see smoke rising beyond the next hill, so there must be a dwelling nearby.

  An hour later she was having trouble thinking clearly. Her mouth was dry, and her body was hot. Fever had set in, and she feared that she would collapse before reaching help. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a man following a hundred yards back. By his clothes, she could tell he was one of the assassins from the night before.

  Adrenaline gave her a moment of clarity, and she sped up. He was afoot so she figured he must have ridden his horse to death trying to catch her during the night. She felt a moment’s pity for the animal. Her body was weak, too weak now, and even the adrenaline failed to give her enough strength. The man drew steadily closer, and she knew the result was inevitable.

  He was only twenty yards back now, and she could hear him breathing hard as he approached. Neither of them had the strength to run, making their competition into a grotesque parody of a sportsman’s race. He was striding heavily while she stumbled along. “Goddammit just stop!” he shouted at her. “Quit now bitch and I’ll make your last minutes pleasant before you die.”

  Elena di’Cameron was no fool. She could not continue, and she had no strength to fight. Setting her son down, she turned back. Five steps, then ten, she collapsed as he approached. She lay face down with the sword she had taken cradled beneath her. She would not think of it as her own sword, that sword had been broken. She heaved great lungfuls of air and dust from the road as she tried to get some strength back. Her only hope was that he was stupid enough to have some sport of her before he killed her.

  She waited till he stood above her, hoping he would pause. She seemed helpless, which was almost the full truth. Standing there, he decided he was too tired for fun and drew his sword. Elena rolled and thrust upward, trying to impale him either in the groin or stomach. It very nearly succeeded, but her arms failed her and the strike was too slow. He kicked her sword aside and then came down hard, planting his knees on her shoulders. She felt her collarbone snap and screamed with what air she had left.

  Pinning her to the ground, he drew out a small knife, “I’ll finish your kid with this after you’re dead witch!” His eyes held no trace of sanity. She tried to spit in his face, but her mouth was dry and there was nothing left. Then an arrow sprouted in his chest. He seemed surprised, looking at it in astonishment. Dropping the knife, he started to try to pull it out, when the second arrow appeared in his throat. Then he fell off of her, dead before his head found the road. Elena tried to get up, but nothing worked. She could hear her son crying as her sight grew dim. Darkness closed around her, and she sank into oblivion.

  Some nameless time later she awoke. She attempted to move, and her collarbone shifted, grinding. The pain forced her into stillness, and she lay there taking stock of her surroundings. “Don’t try to move. Your body has been through too much,” a voice said.

  A woman sat beside the bed. They were in a small room, some farmer’s cottage perhaps by the look of it. She rinsed a cloth and placed it back on Elena’s forehead. “Your body is taken with a terrible fever. I thought for a while you might never awaken.”

  Elena stared at her; the woman had a kind face, with strong features, “My baby...”

  “Shhhh, don’t worry he’s ok. He’s right here. A good strong boy you have, he’s been crying lustily since Royce brought you in.” She leaned over and lifted Elena’s son from a makeshift bed they had set up in the room. Elena wasn’t able to hold him, so the woman settled him beside her, where she could feel him with her hand.

  “I need to tell you some things,” she started.

  “Nah nah, don’t work yourself up. Your body is working hard to fight the fever, you need to rest. There will be plenty of time later,” the woman reassured her.

  “No, there won’t.” Elena said, “I’m hurt deep inside. Down here...” She tried to gesture to her stomach, but it hurt too much to move. She was tired, bone tired, but she kept talking, and slowly she explained who she was to the woman caring for her.

  After a time she learned that the woman was named Meredith Eldridge, Miri for short, and her husband Royce had found Elena on the road. He was a blacksmith and had been headed out to take a cask of nails and other sundries to the castle at Lancaster. Fortunately he always took his bow with him on such trips. The two women spoke for over an hour before Elena could no longer continue and lapsed into a troubled sleep.

  The next day her fever was worse, but Miri still held out hope for her. Elena convinced them to let her have pen and paper, but the struggle to sit up and write was almost too much for her. She fought her pain and weariness, and eventually she found a position, sitting at the table which didn’t hurt as much. Her left arm was useless, but she could still grip the pen in her right hand as long as she didn’t move it too far while writing.

  She wrote two letters; one for her son, and a much shorter note to the Duke of Lancaster. At last Miri helped her back to bed exhausted. “Don’t tell him Miri... not till he’s older.”

  “What’s that, love?” Miri tried to sooth her.

  “Don’t tell him about me, till he’s older. Let him be happy. When he must know, give him my letter.” She was emphatic.

  “Shush now, you can tell him yourself when you’re better. You’ll stay here with us, and when you get your strength you can help me with the place,” Miri smiled and stroked Elena’s hair. “You just rest yourself, and someday soon we’ll have a picnic. Spring is here and it’s so lovely out. The flowers are blooming, and the air is full of sweet smells.” Elena fell softly asleep while Miri talked. She felt like a girl again, with her own mother singing her to sleep. After a while Miri got up and went to start dinner.

  Elena never woke. She passed quietly away that night. Her son woke the Eldridge’s the next morning with his crying. It seemed he knew somehow that she was gone.

  Chapter I

  THE IDEAS EXAMINED WITHIN THESE pages were originally meant to explore the nature of magic alone, until deeper examination revealed the connection between the ‘aythar’ that is spoken of by wizards, and the miracles and supernatural occurrences found in all faiths and religions. No one was more surprised than I was, at this connection between the �
��natural’ and the ‘supernatural’, and it formed the basis of my loss of faith and the beginning of my fall into heresy. Therefore be warned, if you are a man of faith or religion, a cleric, monk, priest, or holy man of any type, stop here. Read no further, for the ideas and science presented within, will doubtless erode the very necessary foundations required for any sincere connection with the gods.

  ~Marcus the Heretic,

  On the Nature of Faith and Magic

  I never felt like an unusual child, which I suppose is true of everyone, at least up to a point. Growing up I was inquisitive and adventurous as most boys are, but as I grew my mother made some observations, “He’s a very quiet child.” I don’t remember the first time she said that, but it immediately struck me as true. In fact I was very introspective, despite my amiable nature and easy smile. As I got older, she went so far as to describe me as someone born with an “old soul”, whatever that meant. Mostly I just thought a lot, which set me apart from the other children a bit, but not enough that I felt a difference or a gap. Looking back it seems clear that my native caution and introspective nature are probably what kept me alive.

  My father’s name is Royce, Royce Eldridge, and he is a blacksmith by trade. I’ve often wondered if he regrets his vocation, since it seems he loves horses more than metal and will use any excuse to slip away to the city to see the races. He has also spent a bit more money than was wise, purchasing highly bred horses of his own. My mother, Meredith is her name, chided him about that, but she didn’t really mind. In truth she loved horses just as much, and it was during one of his trips to see the races as a younger man, that he had met her. After they married, they were unable to have children, but as fate would have it, years later, on another trip to the city, my father found me. As he tells the story, I was just a lone babe, abandoned on the roadside not far outside of town. Most likely my young mother had put me there, where I could easily be seen and heard, in hopes that some farmer’s wife might happen upon me. I’ll probably never know exactly why she chose to do so, but things worked out well for me, so I have never borne her any ill will.

  Royce and Meredith were happy to have a child of their own, and I, being an only child, got a bit more attention than most children. If my parents had been wealthy, I would have probably been completely spoiled, but as it was I was simply happy. Most of our neighbors didn’t realize I was adopted, but my parents never kept it a secret from me. I was proud to be an Eldridge, and I worked hard to please my father. He made a point of letting me watch him work in the smithy, familiarizing me with the tools and methods of his trade. I found the ruddy glow of hot iron fascinating, watching it slowly take shape under his patient hands. Being a smith’s son, it was naturally assumed that someday I would follow him in the craft, and I had no objection. If things had turned out differently, I might be working at a forge even now, happily shaping metal to make my living.

  As I grew from a curious boy, into an awkward adolescent, it became apparent that I might have some difficulty with the work. I had many natural talents. I was unusually intelligent, something that most adults noticed within minutes of talking to me. I had a good eye for metal and a natural gift when it came to crafting or building. My hands were sure and skilled, an artist’s hands my mother called them. That lay at the heart of the problem. Although I was long of limb, I was not particularly stout. I worked hard helping my father at the bellows, but no matter how much my mother fed me, I never seemed to fill out. It seemed I was doomed to remain a gangly youth forever. Still, I was skillful enough that, given time, I would probably have managed to become a competent smith, if not for what happened that spring, when the rivers were swollen with rain.

  The day had dawned bright and full of promise, as spring days are wont to do. The rains had been especially heavy that year, my sixteenth year, but they had ended a few days ago, and the whole world seemed alive and shining. The sun was warm while the air still held a crisp chill left over from winter. All in all it seemed a terrible waste to be cooped up in the smithy with my father. I suspect that is why my mother sent me out to look for herbs. She had always been kind, and I think even then, she knew my youthful spirit was too large to be bounded by the orderly confines of the smithy. So it was with a spring in my step and a wicker basket in my hands that I went out to explore the fields and woods near our home. I knew the area well of course, but I enjoyed every chance I got to roam about, and I knew my mother wouldn’t expect me back very soon.

  I spent the morning roaming about the fields, picking a variety of greens and dandelions that I knew my mother liked to use in her cooking, but as noon neared I decided to venture down to the river in search of angelica, a medicinal herb. I had no notion of what I would find there that day. I passed through a heavily wooded area that was close to the Glenmae River. The land rose before reaching the river, so I was still unable to see the banks when I heard the sound of a horse in distress. The horse was blowing and nickering loudly, with a pitch that indicated it was fully in the throes of panic. If you have spent much time around horses, you probably have an idea what I mean. I immediately broke into a run, youthful daydreams forgotten. I still don’t regret what I did that day, but looking back, I wonder how things might have turned out if I had taken a different path and avoided the river.

  Coming over the rise, I saw a young man about my own age standing at the bank of the river, swearing loudly at the surging waters. I suppose it might be more correct to say he stood at the ‘new’ bank of the river, for it appeared that a large portion of the former bank had been swept away, undercut by the rushing water. I still could not see the horse, but the boy I knew, for he was my best friend, Marcus. Even at this distance, I could see his face was white with fear. Within half a minute I had reached him, and though I shook his shoulder, he looked at me blankly as if he didn’t know me. It took him a moment to recognize me and collect his wits enough to speak coherently, “Mort!” (I should probably mention at this point that my name is Mordecai, but most of my friends at this age had taken to calling me ‘Mort’.) “I’ll never get her out of there Mort! She’s going to die, and it’s my fault!”

  The ‘she’ he was referring to, was his father’s prized mare, Dawnstar, although we just called her Star. She was a beautiful roan, with a star-like blaze on her forehead. She was also one of the most expensive acquisitions in his father’s large stable of horses. His father, the Duke of Lancaster, had bought her expressly for her bloodline, to improve his stock, for she came from a famous line of racehorses. I was sure that Marcus wasn’t supposed to be riding her, but little things like rules rarely stopped my friend when he had a notion to do something.

  It was easy to guess at the rough details of what had happened. He had ridden her close, to watch the river as it raced along. He had gotten off and led her close to the bank, the mare having had enough sense to balk at being ridden so close to the roaring water. That was when disaster struck. The weakened river bank had collapsed under the weight of the horse, and while Marcus had managed to scramble back out of the way, the mare had not been so lucky. She was trapped in the river, struggling to keep her head above the water. The torrent had swept her up against a fallen tree where she was trapped, unable to climb up the steep muddy bank. Star’s panicked cries wrenched at my heart as she desperately strove to keep her head above water.

  Without thinking, I began scrambling down the slippery embankment, trying to get close. It should be readily apparent that my thinking at this point was not clear, because there was no possible way I could free the trapped horse. The crumbling bank was steep and narrow at the water’s edge, which would make it impossible to get the horse out of the water, even if I were strong enough to accomplish such a thing. She was near to being swept under the lower edge of the fallen oak. That would lead to a swift drowning if she became entangled in the large limbs dipping into the water. Still I approached her without a clear plan, drawn by her plight.

  “Mort! You’re gonna get yourself killed!” Marcus
was usually the more reckless of the two of us, but today he was showing a lot more intelligence than I seemed to possess. “Get back up here before I have to explain your death as well!” For a moment I considered his words, and I realized he was right. I started to turn, to make my way back, common sense finally overcoming my foolishness, but then I met Star’s eyes. That was when my life changed, that was the moment that swept everything before it aside and set me and my friends on a course from which we could never turn back. The historians would have much less to write about, if I had not looked into that frightened mare’s eyes.

  At this point I’m not sure how to describe what I experienced. Probably some of you who read this have been through moments of crisis and felt the surge of emotions that sweep over you in an instant; the timeless moment of clarity in which you can think a thousand things in the blink of an eye. This was one of those moments, and as I looked into that noble creature’s eyes, I felt as if a window had opened into my own soul. My world shrank, until it contained nothing, nothing at all but Star and myself. Her eyes were wild with fear, and her breathing was loud as her lungs heaved, despite the rushing water. My own body seemed light and insubstantial, and soon I lost all sensation of it, falling into her gaze. Now there was only Star, and Mordecai was gone as if he had never existed. My body and indeed my very ‘self’ were no more, everything had been replaced. I should rephrase that; my body still existed, but it was different now, much heavier, and it was cold. I could feel my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. I was mostly submerged in the cold river, and I could feel it chilling me, sapping my strength as it pushed me against the tree, drawing me downward with an inexorable pull.

  I could see a young man on the river bank, slowly sinking, like a puppet with its strings cut. He was slipping into the water as well, and I wondered who he was. I fought to stay above the water, and in my desperation I had one clear thought. If I just had something firm to stand upon, I might be able to get myself up and out of that freezing water. My hands hit something hard; next my feet found it as well, and I began to rise. Stepping up I found something else solid to stand on and I began to walk out of the river. As I emerged, my hands felt strange. Looking down I realized they were now hooves. That seemed rather silly; since I was quite sure I wouldn’t be able to climb up the embankment without hands. Instead I walked up the river until I came to a place where the bank rose at a gentler slope, and I chose that spot to walk out.