by Jack Ketchum
“And you fools failed to find it! Now my best generals are dead. There’s no one left to lead my army to war.”
“What of you?” a robed cultist said, then clasped his hands to his mouth, horror filling his eyes. “Forgive me, my lord!”
“Me? Preposterous! My job is to oversee my lord’s holding, not nursemaid troops. The temerity of the thought.” The Seneschal lashed out his sword.
The cultist shrieked as the Seneschal’s blade pierced his eye and then brain. He convulsed once, then lay still.
“I’m surrounded by idiots, fools, and incompetents!” The door creaked open and a goblin scurried in, clutching a scroll.
“Master, I bear word from The Arkholt.”
He snatched the document and unfurled it. His anger faded, replaced with a gut-wrenching mix of fear, disbelief, and confusion. “We march at dawn, two days hence. My luck is cursed! Fate plagues me like a useless burden.”
His attendants stood in place. Terror and panic washing over him at the news. Even the jailor, a creature of hatred and anger, cowered on the floor. Glamour flowed forth, whips of malice and rage, lashing out with barbed lethality. All his plotting and planning ruined. Useless, like his so-called prize.
The Seneschal took three deep breaths and stepped over the cultist’s body. He motioned for the messenger and jailor to follow him. “Come, we need to prepare. Go fetch the handmaiden, she’s a cursed creature and I intend on ridding myself of her.”
Each step of the army sounded like the pounding of a drum, heralding the coming of death. Doom. Doom. Doom. Sprites and gnomes. Trolls and ogres. Elves and dwarfs. A collection of great siege engines dragged behind shaggy beasts that some might charitably call animals, if you didn’t look too closely at the lack of fur, tanned skin, and pained eyes. The column wound through the broken landscape, a snake of metal and malice, poised to strike at an unwary misstep.
“Come along, worthless one. You’ll provide entertainment for my troops this evening,” the Seneschal said, “and in the morning, your blood will soak the battlefield as an offering to fate.”
Nidaria whimpered as she trotted alongside her new master’s mount. The thing might have once been a horse as sculpted by a blind man. Legs with extra joints. A tail that forked into bone-like spikes. Two heads without eyes or mouth or ears. Jagged stone cut into the soles of her feet, leaving bloody prints on the path. The leash hung limply, dragging on the ground behind. A reminder that if she didn’t keep up, it would be fastened to the mount. She would be dragged along. One of the camp followers had been left at the side of the path, broken and gasping out life from such a failure. She would not be a similar example.
A boar-commander trotted his Horse-Yet-Not alongside. “Seneschal. The sappers and the high guard have fallen to the wayside. Many are sick, a few have died.”
“How? When?”
“Rust poisoning. I’ve seen it before. The gnomes are tending to those that can still move, the rest are unlikely to live past the hour.”
“Saboteurs and murderers surround me! Grandfather Tick seeks to defeat us before we reach his realm. I will not be deterred. Place extra guards with the provisions.”
“So it shall be,” he grunted. “We approach the Bridge of Fossa.”
“Send out the engineers and make sure it is safe to cross,” the Seneschal said. “March the troops double-time when we are clear.”
The boar-commander saluted and spurred his Horse-Yet-Not to the head of the column, winding a low blast from his war horn. Leather-clad dwarfs stomped past, clambering down and over the wooden bridge.
“My talents are wasted here. Grandfather Tick shall pay dearly for this inconvenience. Forced to lead common troops, not even the elites in The Arkholt’s service.”
An hour passed before the boar-commander returned. “We’re safe to cross. The scouts are moving forward.”
“Proceed and bring up the siege engines. Move in haste before our enemy is alerted.”
The bridge vibrated as the troops marched across the span, flowing around the Seneschal as he paused in the middle to survey the movements. Ahead, the first soldiers spread out to guard against attack. Behind, siege machines rumbled forward, inching up the steep approach as the beasts struggled under their load. Nidaria closed her eyes and leaned against the Horse-Yet-Not. She spun a thread, dragging up the latent glamour from her bile that stained the bridge—a touch of terror and vertigo into the mount. The casting of a pebble on a slope of scree.
“What are you doing, girl?” The Seneschal’s head whipped around, eyes blazing with fury.
“Boo,” she whispered.
His mount reared up, screaming and howling in a warbling wail, pitching him off, and bolting over the troops.
A boom echoed as a bridge support splintered and broke. Over the horizon, lines of silver and brass men whirred and clicked into view. Immense cannons rolled forward. Clouds of steam billowing out as the boilers roared to life. Cast-iron barrels spit fire and smoke as they sent balls of brass through the air.
A voice rang out, over the sudden hush. “Ambush!”
Panic. Chaos. Hands pushed her to the railing as panicked soldiers scattered about, uncertain on which way to run. From the center of the span, the Seneschal struggled to his feet. Blood spilled from a cut on his scalp and one eye was now swollen shut, but the other focused on her.
“You. This is all your doing.” His blade wavered in his unsteady grip.
“My mistress knows of your plans. She will not allow you to gain power over the sleeping lord.” Two more cannonballs exploded at base of the bridge. It teetered and shook, planks falling into the water below.
A flicker of fear crossed his face. “How do you know of those plans?”
“You should treat your underlings better. The jailor is showing evidence of your perfidy to The Arkholt even as we speak.” His blade, cold and rough, cut into her stomach, causing an acidic pain that danced and flayed at her nerves. Blue-tinted blood gushed out, flowing in a sticky wave to cover the Seneschal’s blade.
“You’ll not survive to gloat about it to your mistress.”
“I will.” She gripped his hand, releasing the thousands of stingers hidden in the flesh of her palm, to deliver the toxin into his system. “I empowered the prisoner to self-destruct. I poisoned your sappers and guard. You are the fool and weakling. None will know you were defeated by a handmaiden, but all will revile you for treachery.”
He fell limply onto her, sending them crashing against the railing. Panic filled his one good eye, forced wide by the venom coursing through his system. His mouth moved in a silent plea. The wood underneath them, rotted and decayed from her bile, collapsed as a cannonball crashed through the remaining supports.
His disbelief hit her as the bridge collapsed beneath them. Nidaria turned her head and spit out the last of her glamour, a blue pearl that tumbled toward the dark waters. Darkness clouded her vision as she plunged into the river’s cool embrace.
Nidaria knelt before her mistress and placed her palms on the sand. Her tentacle hair hung suspended in the water, lifted by the slight current that drifted over the ziggurat. The small strands would grow longer over time, until they once again formed a halo around her head. The brine stung at the welts and cuts that crossed her blue skin, incompletely healed from her regrowth. Her gill slits flapped open and closed to move life-giving fluid, once more sending her lungs into dormancy. “Mistress, it is done as you wished.”
“Welcome home, lovely Nidaria.” Atop of the dais, Brolga burbled with delight. “The Arkholt sent a message lamenting the death of my gift at the hands of a foul traitor. He offers an alliance against our mutual enemies.”
“As you planned. Without The Seneschal, his army is in disarray.”
“He accuses Grandfather Tick and the Princess of collusion in the destruction of his army. That the vote of censure was a sham.” Her mistress leaned forward. “Did you alter the vote?”
“I swapped Cathare’s marker and tipp
ed the vote in favor of The Arkholt. The others believe that he abstained to curry favor with whomever won.”
“How did you tip over the crate? My guards reported it to be securely fastened to the beast.”
“They left the beast unguarded during the trip when called away to attend to business of a personal nature. Those jealous of my position did the rest.” Her eyes rested on the simpering Undine handmaidens, laying at the feet of her mistress. Uncertainty and confusion radiated off them. “They saved me the effort. All I had to do was accidentally catch my sleeve on the chest.”
“They shall be punished for disobeying my orders.” Brolga laughed and clapped her hands. “I am pleased with the result. War is avoided, three of my enemies weakened, and balance restored once again. All because of a useless handmaiden who perished with a vile traitor.”
“Yes, mistress. A loss that you’ll need to replace,” Nidaria said. “The Arkholt will still expect a gift from you.”
“Do you have any suggestions on what would be appropriate?”
She looked at the three servants that cowered before her. “Yes, I have.”
THE BITTER AND
THE SWEET
BY DB COREY
Madeline Brzezinski wouldn’t watch a TV even if her mother owned one. She preferred the world of her books, of the heroes who swooped in to save the damsel in distress, or the magic boys who could summon great power to protect their friends from the monsters. Madeline preferred her books to her own life ... because in her life, the monsters were real.
Nine p.m. had come and gone according to the cracked plastic clock askew on the greasy kitchen wall. Her mother should be home by now. Madeline hovered near the living room window on her second-floor apartment looking for her mother’s beat-up ‘99 Toyota. The tiny, two-bedroom Section-8 on South Amity Street sat in the worst part of Baltimore, and the disorder in the streets belonged to the night. She couldn’t block it out. The building was old, built before air-conditioning came standard with construction and the windows were always open. She slept in her own room with peeling paint and a fan that pushed hot air around. It made a breeze and it seemed cooler, but on the nights when temperatures climbed to the top of the charts, she could sleep in her mom’s room with the window air-conditioner, but not until her mother got home. Electricity was expensive.
Favoring her left leg, Madeline limped to her room to get her favorite book—the tale of a boy who could fly. The book was old and dog-eared, and she carried it to the window with the care afforded a Fabergé egg. Reading by the floodlights on the roof, she sometimes wished that she could fly. Then she too could go to Neverland and be part of the Lost Boys.
Peter was wrangling with his shadow by the time Madeline heard the tick-tick-tick of her mother’s Toyota. Gray smoke poured from the tailpipe as she watched it pull to the curb. She marked the page with a bobby pin and saw her mother heave her large body from the car. Once relieved of the weight, the Toyota popped up like a cork under water. But then the passenger door opened; something unexpected, and Madeline couldn’t imagine who could be with her mom.
Maybe she met someone nice, someone who would take them from this place to a nice house in the country. She loved the country, although she’d never been, except for in her imagination, seeded from the picture books at the recycling center down the street. But when a small man hauling a green trash bag stepped under the streetlight, terror seized her, and her water escaped down her leg.
“Are you finished now, Cole?” Hanna sniped. “Any dessert for you tonight? How about some coffee? Or maybe a fucking espresso?”
CIA Deputy-Director Preston Cole dabbed his lips with his napkin, and the grin that hid beneath continued into the perfect smile. “I thought you considered cursing against the Word of God,” he said.
“Yeah. Well, God and I aren’t doing so well right now.”
“I can see.” He signaled the waiter for the check.
“What do I have to do to get the information I want?” she asked.
“Hanna, I told you already. When we struck our deal, I said you had to have skin in the game. Well, this is it.” He tossed a manila envelope across the table.
“What’s this?”
“Your assignment. This guy Hoffer is a piece of shit. Rapes and hurts little girls. Just like you.”
“I’m not a little girl.”
“Like Molly, then.”
Cole watched the anger smoldering in Hanna’s eyes flare into intense rage. He knew his cavalier mention of her murdered sister could bring her across the table at him. It was a calculated move on his part, designed to get a read on her state of mind. He couldn’t have an asset going off half-cocked when provoked.
She kept her place. She was a pro, and Cole knew she wouldn’t kill him, at least not right then. She’d wait until she got what she needed ... then she’d kill him.
Cole smiled inwardly, “Very good, Hanna. I see your training is still intact. So here’s the deal. I have the information you want, and you will get it as soon as you have something to lose as I do. This op is not what we call sanctioned by the Masters. I’m on my own. If you want your stuff, you have to do something for me first.”
Hanna glared. “What!”
Cole nodded toward the envelope on the table in front of her. “I need to burn that when you’re finished.”
“This is murder, Cole.”
“Yeah. I know. So what do you call your plans for Daemon Goode? A play date?”
“I won’t do it.”
“Yes you will ... or you’ll never find your sister’s killer. This is the skin I spoke of.” Cole shifted in his chair and let the tension wane for a moment. “Look, Hanna. This animal raped his girlfriend’s eight-year-old daughter, but first took the time to beat her to a pulp. He did three years of a ten-year stretch and now he’s out on good behavior. My sources tell me he’s been released into the custody of a court-appointed custodian due to overcrowding at the halfway house, but the custodian is on the take, and Hoffer’s shacked up with his ex-girlfriend, living in the same rat hole as the little girl. As long as Hoffer shows up for his court-appointed job, no one will check on him. He’ll drop off the radar.” Cole took a minute to let it sink in.
“Madeline Brzezinski is the little girl’s name. Remember it, because he’ll probably beat her to death this time.”
Hanna’s anger faded. “The girlfriend took him back? Is she unbalanced?”
“Unwanted. She supports him and he fucks her. It’s a pure symbiotic relationship. To be honest, I don’t see how he even gets it up for her. She’s not what you would call desirable. But who am I to criticize.”
“I ... I’ve never killed anyone close up before.”
“Up close, far away ... killing is killing. This will be good practice for when you find Goode. Besides, how will you feel if Hoffer hurts Madeline again, maybe kills her this time, knowing you could have done something to stop him? You won’t get a wink of sleep if I know you. Think of it as doing the world a favor. Then, when you off this misfit, I’ll give you Goode. You get to take out two pieces of shit for the price of one. Win-Win. Don’t you see? Guys like this make a mockery of our laws, and the judicial system keeps putting them back among us.”
“You’re going rogue, aren’t you, Cole?”
“I’m doing what’s right. Now ... do you want Goode, or don’t you?”
Hanna pursed her lips in thought, much like a chess player looking for a way out of check. Her blue eyes never left Cole, and her next move didn’t take but a moment.
“... I’ll need a weapon.”
Madeline made herself small, as small as she possibly could; curled into a fetal position in the saggy corner of a threadbare sofa. The groan of old wooden steps grew ever louder as her mother hefted herself to the second floor. She had brought the monster home, just as she did over three years ago. Panic stole Madeline’s breath as she experienced the beating all over again. She was only eight when the monster raped her.
Mad
eline heard her mother’s labored breathing on the far side of the door—then the jingle of keys and the click of a lock. The door creaked open and Madeline’s mother poked her head in. She didn’t see Madeline at first and called her name before pushing the door its full travel. She stood in the doorway, filling the space with her girth, her yellow uniform soiled with coffee and soda and food. Some of the stains were older than others, and most were older than today. She called again.
“Madeline? Where you at?”
A small voice. “Here.”
Her mother’s face took on a sheepish look as she stepped into the sparse living room. She toggled a switch and the harsh glare of a bare ceiling bulb filled the room. She started toward Madeline without closing the door. Madeline cringed.
“There you are, girl! Couldn’t see you in the dark.”
Madeline said nothing.
“Madeline? I gotta talk ‘bout somethin’ really important with ya. I brought—”
“Why’d you bring him back?” Madeline’s voice quivered and caught in her throat as she began to cry. “Why?” her voice pleading. “He hurt me, Mommy! He hurt me bad. Made me bleed down there.” Madeline peered around her mother looking for the monster but couldn’t see past her, so she pushed herself deeper into the sofa with every step her mother took toward her.
“Now Madeline, you shouldn’t be talkin’ that way. Simon told me he didn’t mean it. That he’s sorry. He was drunk an’ didn’t know what he was doin’. He said to me he’d never ever hurt you if he didn’t get drunk.”
“HE’S ALWAYS DRUNK! I HATE him! I don’t WANT him here!”
“Now Madeline, what did I learn ya ‘bout God an’ forgivin’ an’ forgetin’?”
“Madeline lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “You took him back because no one else wants you. He hurts you too, Mommy. I know he does. I saw him.”