Knaves

by Abbott, Alana Joli; Meadors, Melanie R. ;

  “Look, just because you’re pretty…” His voice trailed off as he stopped himself. Like he’d gotten careless and let slip some accidental truth. Recalling how often I caught him staring at my legs, I resented my skirt and the power it gave to his eyes. He re-thought his approach. “Think about it for a day. This offer won’t be made twice. In this life, you need as many friends as you can get.”

  Sarah slipped me a note. “Was he asking you out?”

  I scrawled in large letters. “Ew.”

  “He’s kind of cute.”

  I underlined “Ew.” three times.

  Still, the edges of my lips upturned a little. Sarah had a way of making things seem normal, like the promise of what could be. She spoke to the dream of another girl.

  I HAVE TO choose soon. Indecision invites death.

  EVERYONE NEEDS A sanctum.

  I crept into Dad’s study. Like he was expecting me and had struck a pose, he stood by the window, his hands folded into each other behind his back, like some great, pensive falcon scanning for prey. I was already as tall as him. We met eye-to-eye. Dad had a body like a ballet dancer, thin and muscled, not too different from mine. He moved more like a cat than a heavy-footed soldier.

  “Dad, can I ask you something?”

  “I can’t promise you an answer.” Without the mask, he still sounded serious—and he was always serious—but something in his tone hinted at a smile.

  “Why did you choose this life?”

  “What makes you think I chose this?” He loved answers that either made him sound deep or were designed to make me think. I believed he simply enjoyed playing mysterious so much he’d forgotten how to be real. I was about to re-frame my question, or give up, when he waved me off. “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do.” He crossed his arms and waited, letting each second tick by unchallenged.

  “I feel… lost,” I eventually said. “Like I’ve been invited to a party where I don’t know that many people. And the one or two I do just left me hanging.”

  I turned away from him, not wanting to catch his eyes. I didn’t want him to feel accused, nor did I want him seeing into me. I was my father’s daughter, after all, and wanted to keep the secrets of who I really was. Slipping my hands into my pocket, trying to play it cool, I prayed that my hoodie would swallow me whole and then roll out of my father’s study like a lone tumbleweed.

  “You think I’ve pulled away? I’m sorry, how did you put it, ‘left you hanging’?”

  “Ever since mom died…” I tried to explain.

  “Ever since I failed, you mean.”

  “I’ve never said that.”

  “You’ve never had to.” Dad stalked about the room, wary and listless, yet tentative, like he was afraid he might break something. “I’m not a good man.”

  “Dad, I never said…”

  He held up his hand. “I do what I do. I choose which assignments I take. Some people have become so rabid it’s a mercy for them to be put down—for both themselves and others. I’ve made choices for me. But I regret having dragged you down this path for selfish reasons.”

  Selfish. A vague notion began to take shape in my head that perhaps, in his own warped way, being a Hunter Unit was his way of us spending quality time together.

  All I wanted was a choice. I didn’t want my life picked out and handed to me like some used prom dress.

  “We are little more than dogs listening for the voice of our master,” he whispered.

  “Daddy?” I don’t know what made me call him that. I hadn’t used that word since I was nine years old and informed him that I was grown and would call him Dad from then on (“Father” when I was mad at him). But the timbre of his voice filled me with fear and uncertainty and reduced me to a little girl frightened by a thunderstorm looking to be comforted by her daddy.

  “The Grendel Society is what it is. A necessary evil. We do the work that allows leaders to keep their hands clean. But some within the organization would see us reduced to mercenaries, pimped out to the highest bidder without any moral compass beyond greed. And they would take out any who would oppose them.” He picked the framed photo of him and mom from the desk.

  The only pictures of her which remained in the house. “We were betrayed and I won’t rest until I find out by who.”

  Those were the last words my father said to me.

  PARANOIA IS A way of life.

  Walking down the school hallways, I guessed at the stories and thoughts of the folks who met my eyes and became doubly curious about those who didn’t. I wondered who might be actual friends and who only pretended to be. Who gossiped behind my back and how harmful those rumors might be. High school was a life and death experience.

  “Demari was asking about you,” Sarah said.

  “He knows where to find me.” I didn’t glance up from my work.

  “That’s what he kept saying. Made a big deal of it. Like you two had a date or something.”

  Boys hated any kind of rejection and often went through crazy lengths to cover up their hurt. Demari spread word along the vine as an operational tactic. He was coming for me and wanted me to know. I knew how to use that tactic, too. “That’s some foolishness. I’m hanging with my dad tonight. Something about bonding time.”

  “I ought to join you and bring some Chinese.” Sarah twirled a random batch of her hair. She drew the malformed braid to her nose as if to sniff it. “All my dad ever does is work.”

  “And buy you nice stuff.”

  “Well, if my love is going to be bought, it might as well be quality.” She cocked her head as if wanting to be serious for a second but didn’t know the proper body language for it. “Does this mean we’re not seeing you at practice tonight? We got state coming up.”

  “Fencing. Seriously. I don’t know why my dad has me up in this bougie neighborhood, at this bougie school, doing all these bougie things.”

  “Have you ever considered that if it walks like a duck…” Sarah began to hum.

  “Is that…? Are you for real humming ‘Bad and Bougie’ to me right now?”

  “Quack. Quack.” Sarah tried to hold a serious face, but soon broke down in giggles.

  I quickly joined her. “I’m too through with you.”

  “Come on. You’re our best fencer.” Sarah touched my arm in a reassuring gesture. I stopped myself from staring at the unfamiliar contact.

  “Me and my bougie self will be at state, if not tonight’s practice.”

  “Fine.” Sarah loped off with a spring in her steps.

  My thoughts turned to the grim calculations of inevitable confrontation.

  I FOUND MY father’s body.

  A broken rag doll collapsed on the floor in a ridiculous position, his legs bent underneath him. His arms outstretched in an unnatural sprawl, too awkward a posture for my brain to believe he’d fallen asleep. Or had fainted. I dropped to my knees. Holding his hand, I interlaced my fingers with his as if by sheer force of will I could channel my life force into him and reanimate him. Tears streaked my face, hot trails along already flushed cheeks. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. The world turned gray. My ears filled with white noise like a station that couldn’t find its signal. My mind emptied as I rocked back and forth, asleep but with my eyes open.

  I don’t know how long I stayed like that.

  Dad’s phone buzzed. Someone—his employer or a ranking member of the Grendel Society—wanted a sitrep. If my dad was dead, the rest of the Hunter Pack #1, me, would be scrubbed. If the assets, me, was deemed valuable enough, they could be assigned to another pack.

  I pictured Demari’s grin, like a lecherous dog anxious to tear something apart.

  “You’re not strong enough. Attachment is weakness.” My father’s words echoed in my head. “You’re not ready yet.”

  THERE IS SO much I don’t know about my father.

  Feeling along the inside of his desk drawer, my fingers searched until I found the bu
tton. I depressed it, and a hidden closet slid open. My father’s gear hung in place. Full body armor, sleek yet plated. By the time he fixed his mask into place, one couldn’t tell if he was human or robot. An array of field weapons was stored across from the suit. He could arm himself according to the mission. Taking his mask from its mount, I cradled it in my hands, turning it over and over. I wondered about how little I knew of the man, how much of him was in this mask. Who was the target that drew him out? How he lost his way due to it. Whoever decided to threaten us. Us. Again, a vague notion began to coalesce in my head. Me. I had been the target.

  All of the lights went out. A dull whine, like the life being drained from the house, plunging the room into complete darkness. My guess was an EMP device of some sort, designed to have my hunter drones, still in camouflage mode, collapse noiselessly to the ground. I dropped to my knees to replace the mask. I didn’t hear the intruder until the barrel of his weapon pressed against the back of my head.

  “Thanks. It’d have taken us forever to find Sorrow’s stash.” The voice rang familiar. The lumbering idiot. No, I was the idiot. I believed their little staged play. They took my measure and lulled me into underestimating them. Appearances were carefully constructed lies. And I had run out of patience for them. “Get up. Slowly.”

  I held my arms out.

  He shoved me forward, leading me from my father’s study towards the stairs. Maybe to meet up with his partner or partners. Maybe simply to kill me away from the room they planned to loot. Stage a crime scene to present a clean narrative for the police, those not already on the Society’s payroll, to believe. I took a few cautious steps not knowing how many of my enemies surrounded me. But there were times to simply act and flush them out.

  Whirling, I knocked the weapon away from him and charged to shove him into the wall. He lashed out with a finger strike aimed at my eyes. I ducked the eye jab, but it had been a feint to position me for his kick to my mid-section. I was sloppier than I thought I would be. He arced his hand down. Dodging to my left, I bumped against the stairs. Pushing off them, I narrowly avoided another kick. He was faster than he looked. I’d underestimated him on two counts. Weaving underneath his next flurry of punches, I wrapped up his arms. He had several inches and tens of pounds on me. I’d never beat him in a slugfest. I grappled with him. I found enough of a handhold to flip him to the ground. My punch glanced off the side of his neck. His return blow knocked me from him. I rolled over and scrambled toward him. He planted a foot in my chest, driving all the air from my lungs. I slammed into the ungiving wall. Dazed, I just wanted to slide down and take a nap. With his next charge, I threw a tepid punch. He easily blocked it and wrapped me into a chokehold. The pain and lack of air focused me. Gritting my teeth, I planted myself and jabbed my elbow into him. He reflexively choked me harder. I moved my face toward my shoulder blade to prevent my trachea from being squeezed. I slammed my elbow into his side again and, with a little maneuvering space freed up, followed up with a blow to his neck. He released his hold and staggered backward. A kick sent him to the ground. Me stomping on his head for good measure sent him into unconsciousness.

  A crash came from behind me.

  I dashed down the hallway only to find Sarah standing over the body of the other boy. Shards of my mother’s favorite vase scattered all about him.

  “I brought Chinese.” She held up the bag. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

  My kind is never alone.

  “You surprised someone,” I said.

  “Is there a good explanation for all this?”

  “I’m sure the police will come up with something.”

  THE PHONE BUZZED. The Grendel Society needed an update. I needed to make my decision. My father’s mask grew heavy in my hands. I couldn’t see any other path forward. There was so much I didn’t know about him, so much I didn’t know about his death. Or mom’s. Becoming him would bring me closure and answers. I slipped the mask on over my face. The next voice would not sound like my own and yet would be my choice.

  “This is Sorrow.”

  THE HAND OF VIRTUE

  Linda Robertson

  THE WATCHMAN OF Tremain shouted an alert to his people. “A knight approaches!”

  Hearing his cry, those working outside halted their harvesting chores. Those indoors left their huts. All eyes locked on the hulking black warhorse as it marched near, the knight rigid in the saddle.

  The people of Tremain lined the road to bear witness as another dared climb Mount Wolkehn. They believed it their duty to study and memorize the face of He Who Would Be the One, in order to recall it the next morning as they offered prayers for the dead. But this time they did more than study and memorize. This time they gawked, open-mouthed, realizing the armor-clad rider was a woman.

  Maganhild the Strong wasn’t vexed by their astonishment, but by their breathy whispers that rippled in the wake of her passing.

  Do I look as old as I feel?

  Admittedly, the once sun-golden threads of her hair were waning into moon-silver, but she cared not what color sprouted from her scalp. What concerned her was the ache that plagued her solid grip more often than not. The speed that—decades ago—made her a renowned and formidable opponent of both man and beast had been fading for years. The garments beneath her armor had gotten tight as girth and hips developed their own padding.

  Have I become a hag?

  Eyes forward, she focused on the mortared stone structure ahead.

  Bard-songs claimed the well at Tremain, despite its restorative power, stood plain and unadorned. Maganhild could now attest the bards sang truth, but it was not her journey’s purpose to validate lyrics or taste this mountain water. Another verse of their song prompted her quest. The one that claimed the wizard would grant a wholly virtuous request. It was followed by a cautionary verse to ensure that few would dare to seek the wizard. It stated that a request borne of greed would forfeit the life of the seeker.

  She had studied the lyrics before committing to her purpose. Two things were certain: all who came before her drank from the well to receive its restorative water, and all faced a test prior to meeting the wizard.

  None had ever returned, so Maganhild knew she had to do something different. After hours of reflecting upon the actions of her predecessors, she concluded that drinking from the healing well had secured their failure, for doing so displayed uncertainty, and was thus an act of greed.

  So, with canteens filled elsewhere, Maganhild rode past the well amid surprised gasps of the villagers.

  Gods, let this be the right thing to do.

  Yes, she was uncertain of the wizard and the road ahead, but she believed in her need and sought no false hope to bolster her resolve. She would see this through. She had to; she’d brought her son.

  The advantage to him being so small for his age meant that he could still fit into the saddle-sling she’d fashioned to carry him. It looked like nothing more than an unwieldy pack, unless she turned it so he could perceive the world that sprawled around them. Clear of the villagers, she did so and touched his head, a signal that he no longer had to be silent and still. He reached up, squeezed her fingers, and grinned with an inner joy her own spirit could not muster.

  Riding these many days instead of romping and playing could not have been easy for him, but his happy demeanor never dwindled. Still, Maganhild harbored a worry for what lay ahead. There had been much to delight his eyes along their journey so far, but past Tremain, Wolkehn became the dark, stark, and unforgiving rock best suited for wizards.

  What if the mountain bores him? What if he struggles against the sling and falls? What if the road narrows? What if he panics?

  The small boy could shift from calm to terrified in seconds. Maganhild could only guess at the cause. She discerned no pattern to his attacks. They occurred equally in the day and the dark, before or after feeding.

  She thought it peculiar, though, that it had never happened near Pitch, the great steed they rode. That had inspired
her to wrap him into the saddle-sling. Suspended at the horse’s shoulder, he swung gently as the animal walked and could pet Pitch’s hide any time.

  As they continued onward the road stretched along the edge of steep cliffs. It took her breath every time she glanced out from the mountain, both from the dizzying height and the magnificence of the view.

  When the sun’s edge touched the wide horizon so far behind and below, Maganhild’s concern shifted to finding a place to bed down. She expected to seek out the wizard tomorrow morning, after resting at the edge of the garden—if the lush grounds touted in the bard-songs truly existed.

  Ahead, the path narrowed before a sharp turn. Wary of the thinner trail and what she couldn’t see, she dismounted and, in doing so, realized how stiff she’d become. The stretch felt good.

  Without warning, the boy grabbed the pommel and hauled himself from the sling and into the saddle. She would have scolded him if not for the joy in his expression at sitting on the big horse alone. It changed her words to, “Hold on tight.”

  In response, he yawned. The mirth on his face faded as he rubbed his eyes and yawned again. Then he grabbed the pommel and nodded.

  She led Pitch forward and paused to peer around the bend. The road widened, then curved inland, splitting in two. Between the paths sat a neglected hovel. At first glance, neither direction seemed more obvious as the route to the peak, nor did they reveal any hint that a garden might lay beyond.

  Perhaps that shack will suffice as our shelter for the night. She studied it for a long moment and weighed the options of ensuring it didn’t fall on them.

  Maganhild guided the steed forward.

  Something moved inside the hovel.

  Halting, she gestured at the boy. He climbed back into his sling. She drew an inch of sword blade even as she called out, “Hello!”

  Maganhild hoped for no answer. She hoped to discover their approach had startled a bird or a mouse inside, not an occupant. Birds and mice would leave. An occupant wouldn’t. An occupant could be dangerous.