Swords, Sorcery, & Self-Rescuing Damsels

by Jody Lynn Nye

  It’s nearly sunset, and a squad has just filed past me, the sound of their heavy steps dwindling. When I can no longer hear them, I crawl from my hiding place, but a sudden agonizing, burning pain assails my leg. I had forgotten the peril of wasps and for a moment I panic. With difficulty, I quell my terror and manage to get out of there with no further stings. I’m glad now I was bored enough to eavesdrop on the soldier’s conversations as they discussed wild remedies and the healing properties of kamtara bark.

  The thorns make getting the bark a dangerous chore, but once I learn the trick, I’m successful. I can sense the bark’s healing properties. It’s easily crushed between two rocks, and with water from the creek, it makes a decent poultice. This immediately lessens the swelling, but my leg is still painful. The kamtara scratches will heal, eventually.

  I add the bark to my purse. When I’ve finished my scant breakfast, I began walking again. Bumping against my good leg with every step is the scabbard containing the sword, reminding me that I have nowhere else to go but to Braden. The city is centered in the gap at the southern end of the Escarpment, which is topped by the Mountains of the Moon, so I keep them to my right and continue walking.

  ~*~

  The dawn of yet another day has arrived in this endless forest of thorns. I’m cold, hungry, and weary of being drenched by water-sprites every time I approach the bank of a creek to forage for roots. This time I’m as silent as I’m able in approaching the stream. I find the tender noe shoots and carefully pull them from the soft mud, separating them from their roots. I see no flash of silver, hear no chittering, and my hair remains dry.

  Kneeling beside the water, I drink my fill and wash the roots, enjoying the heady rush of success. I stand, intending to slip back to my resting place.

  A strange groaning sound halts me at the bank of the creek. Searching the small clearing, I see immense boots lying in the rushes, attached to strong legs clad in the leathers of Tauron’s legions.

  Against my better judgement, I look further and am appalled by what I see. A minotaur soldier lies beside the water, beaten and left for dead. His horns have been broken off, leaving gaping holes in his skull through which I can see what I fear is his brain. Blood is everywhere.

  The people of Serende are born as humans and look much like us, although they breed taller and larger. At age fifteen, all males born on the soil of Serende are taken to the church where they must undergo the Ritual of Remaking. They are physically changed into minotaurs, given the head and neck of a bull. Some die in the process, and many are left unable to speak clearly but communicate with the hand language slaves use.

  Only one priest of Tauron still remains visibly unchanged, the Highest. He was born a child of Aeos, and though not a minotaur to my eyes, he has been changed somehow. There is not one minotaur in either world who does not tremble and bow low when he passes, despite his small stature and lack of visible horns.

  The wounded soldier is one of the silent ones, a lower minotaur, and his wordless moans are pathetic. But though his fingers can barely move, what he says captures my attention. “Holy Aeos, have pity on your son. Take me to your Great Hearth.”

  I’d heard rumors of a secret sect of minotaur warriors. At some great battle, the legions were nearly turned back by a great warrior in blue armor, a priest of Aeos they named the Blue Death. Followers of the Blue Death, these Minotaurs secretly worshipped the Goddess Aeos. It was only gossip, nothing proven, of course. But the evidence lies before me, dying of thirst within inches of water.

  My hand shakes as I scoop a handful of water and trickle it into his mouth. His face has been severely beaten, but one swollen red eye opens, and his fingers move. “Thorn Girl...why do you wander in this wilderness?”

  Thorn Girl. It’s as fitting a name as any. I no longer need my slave name and barely remember that which my mother gave me. My own fingers move, saying the one thing he will understand. “Honor.”

  The soldier’s eye drops to the sword at my side. He recognizes a Temple blade and gestures his understanding. His fingers are halting, but I understand him. “The wind in my head blows...my thoughts fly away.” I can see the water brought him some relief. His moans have ceased, but as I watch, he falls unconscious.

  Wounded creatures draw predators. I’m terrified to stay with him but can’t abandon him. Against my better judgement, I gather enough kamtara bark to make a large quantity of poultice.

  Then, using the scissors from my purse, I cut a wide strip off my outer skirt and spread the bark paste between layers. I carefully fold the dressing and bind his head, hoping the aromatics will help heal him. I pray to Aeos that covering the gaping holes will ease his pain. The remaking bestows the ability to withstand great pain and to heal quickly, so perhaps he will survive.

  I need to eat, so I return to the creek to gather more roots and make cold compresses for the soldier’s injuries. A flint and belt knife lay on the ground beside him. Most of my skirt is gone now, and it’s cold, so very cold. I build a low fire, savoring the warmth and hoping it keeps predators away.

  Fearful, and hungry even though I’d eaten several small noe roots, I keep watch, but despite my best efforts, I fall asleep. When I wake, I see him seated beside the fire. The dressing still securely covers his head, but his face is terribly swollen. “This fire was a mistake. But thank you. I’m Kerk. You?” His hands are bruised from the fight he lost, but the gestures are clear.

  Determined to show no fear, I reply, “I left my name behind. You gave me a new one. I’m Thorn Girl now.”

  He nods, and his gaze falls on the Temple blade. “Where do you take your ‘honor’?”

  I can’t be sure of his allegiance. Still, I opt for the truth. “To Braden. To the Red Abbott. I promised.”

  “You won’t get there on this path. This is the Legion’s trail and goes to the garrison at Balensfort. If they find you, that sword will be your death.”

  Horror clutches my belly—I stupidly built a fire alongside their road and camped here as if it were the safest place in the valley. My dismay must show, because Kerk adds, “I would repay my debt.”

  I cock my head but say nothing.

  He sees my wariness. “After I’ve rested, I’ll lead you on the forgotten trails. I must leave you there. I can’t enter the city of the Red Abbott, not with the mark of the remaking still upon me.”

  I gesture to his head, and a grimace crosses his bovine features. “I should begin to heal in a day or two. In the meantime, we must leave here. Help me walk—everything spins.” He must be in great pain, but if so, he doesn’t show it.

  I help him gather his few things as a cold mist sets in. We walk back the way I came. He’s unsteady and sometimes leans heavily on me, but we manage. After we’ve gone some way, he points to a faint trail I hadn’t seen before, and we take it. Perhaps half an hour later, we come to another creek. I sense Kerk is at the end of his strength. “Is this place safe?” My fingers feel frozen, and it’s hard to form the words.

  He looks around in a dazed way, but nods. I’m not sure how far behind us the legion’s trail is and fear a fire would alert them. I see a sheltered place under the branches of a large willow on the bank above the stream. It’s dry and warmer under there, and he immediately falls asleep. Once again, I gather yar blossoms and noe roots, along with some of the tender shoots, saving aside enough to make a small meal for my companion—a days’ worth for me, but even a small minotaur eats a great deal at each sitting.

  When he wakes just before twilight, I change the dressing on his head. The terrible wounds don’t seem to be healing. Nevertheless, Kerk claims he feels better and thanks me for providing food. “I’ll watch. You sleep.”

  Minotaur society is a strange mix of manners and barbarism. They’re casually brutal with each other, but slaves go unharmed for the most part. Sport is everything to them, and there’s no sport in maltreating someone who can’t fight back. I don’t fear he’ll molest me and am more tired than I’ve ever been.
>
  Just as I’m about to fall asleep, a squealing shriek carves through the evening, suddenly cut off. I sit up, seeing Kerk silhouetted in the dusk, wiping his knife on his trouser leg. “Rat-man.” His knife points to a small form shaped like a human but with ratlike features. “They’re attracted to blood. It’s been stalking me.” Wearily, he hefts the corpse into the stream, where it floats away. “Others will feast on his remains and leave us alone.”

  I say he should rest, but he replies, “You sleep.” His fingers are slow, but I take him at his word.

  The ground is hard, and the night is icy. I have only two skirts left for warmth and my cloak is torn and dirty, but it’s all I have. I tuck my face inside and wrap my hands in the folds of what is left of my outer skirt. Although I don’t know how I’ll ever sleep again, I fall into a deep slumber, undisturbed by dreams or beasts.

  Birdsong wakes me to gray daylight. I’m stiff from the cold, but still alive. Kerk sits leaning against the willow trunk, eyes closed. As soon as I move, he is awake. He passes a wide berchera leaf to me, upon which lies half a small perch, neatly fileted. His features are less swollen, and his hands speak more fluidly. “Sorry—only one fish came to breakfast. Perhaps tonight will be better.”

  I nod and thank him and accept the fish. I’m not sure if I like it raw or not, but it fills my belly.

  We talk about the journey. “Five days if I was fit and could carry you, but now? Eight or more days before we get to Braden.”

  The fact his wounds aren’t healing worries me. Minotaurs usually heal quickly, so they should be closing by now. Hopefully they will improve today. Still, he seems to have more strength, so once I’ve eaten, we resume our trek, keeping to the faint trails that follow the waterways.

  ~*~

  We have been walking for nine days, all of which, other than Kerk’s deteriorating health, passed quietly. I enjoy his company, and we talk about many things. He tells me of how his mates, those who also follow Aeos, traveled once beyond the invisible barrier that bars the Bull God’s poisonous magic from leaving the valley, and told him what it was like. The land there sounds wonderful, but I can’t imagine it’s real.

  The last few days have been difficult, as his wounds have turned septic. I’ve been foraging and tending him as well as I can. Four days ago, he developed a raging fever, and I can find no herb to ease it. I apply cold compresses, but they do little good.

  He is deaf and nearly blind now, but intent on walking, telling me repeatedly that he wants to touch Aeos’s untainted soil. I don’t understand what he means, but it keeps him moving. I’ve had to support him most of the time, so we are going slowly.

  This morning we crossed a shallow ford and into what can only be described as the pure land of Neveyah. It was then I understood what he meant. We must have passed through the barrier, because the soil, the air—everything is different, cleaner.

  But now my companion is too ill to continue. “Tell me what you see, Thorn Girl. Tell me what this world looks like.”

  I get close to Kerk’s eyes, so he can see me, and tell him everything—how colorful the birds are, how bright the yellow butterflies, how the deep blue sky is filled with song. I tell him how much I will miss him, and I talk until he can no longer see my words, and then I give him water and hold his hand. He tells me, “Keep walking to the west on this trail... see the walls tomorrow. You’re strong enough... brave enough. You are Thorn Girl.”

  His last words are difficult for me to read because tears fill my eyes. Even though I would have been parted from him at Braden, losing him this way is unfair.

  As the life leaves him, my fingers move in prayer, the ritual for the dead. Then I build a cairn from the river stones and camp beside his grave, unwilling to leave my only friend.

  At dawn, I walk toward the west. The trail becomes an old, unused road, and after several hours I see the white walls of Braden in the distance, topped by a guard tower.

  I’ve nearly finished my quest to take Piers’s sword home. I dread having to tell his lover what happened to him, but I promised.

  But after I’ve done my duty, then what? I don’t know what my role will be. I have skills. I can read and write—I’ll find work of some sort.

  Three weeks ago, I was a slave, afraid of shadows. Now I am Thorn Girl, friend of minotaurs and mages.

  Kerk was right. Inside of me is a woman who can do anything.

  ~***~

  Connie J. Jasperson is a published poet and the author of nine fantasy novels, including the Tower of Bones series, set in the world of Neveyah. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies. A founding member of Myrddin Publishing Group, she can be found blogging regularly on both the craft of writing and art history at Life in the Realm of Fantasy (http://conniejjasperson.com/). She and her husband share five children, numerous grandchildren, and a love of good food and music.

  THE PRINCESS AND THE DRAGON

  ROBYN BENNIS

  Brave Sir Ramsay, by all appearances, was having trouble not only with the dragon, but with the very reality of the dragon. “It’s a dragon!” he cried, diving under a jet of flame from the beast’s mouth. He rolled, came to his feet, and added, “It’s an actual dragon!”

  In the highest chamber of the tower, Princess Purity Vesta Phantasos the Third did her best to look concerned, but only made it as far as annoyed. “’Tis! Woe is me, for the witch who locked me in this tower tasked yon dragon to guard it, just as the stories say!” She then added, in a voice too quiet to carry, “And as the scorched bones say, plus the warnings from the villagers, but details aren’t exactly your strong suit, are they, Sir Raspy?”

  “What?” the knight asked. While he was distracted, the dragon swept a great, clawed foot at him, throwing him a dozen paces. Brambles broke his fall but slowed his rise.

  The dragon reared up and roared. On its hind legs, it was as tall as the tower, bearing tons of corded muscle covered in inky black scales. It came down hard enough to shake the ground, straddling him with its front paws.

  Just as it seemed that he was doomed to be its supper, a lady’s shoe hit the creature on the back of its angular head. The beast’s slitted pupils widened, and it looked back. Sir Ramsay did not hesitate, but swept his longsword across the dragon’s ear, slicing through a quarter of it. As the dragon keened and thrashed at the pain, he ran.

  He stopped a hundred yards away and shouted something up to Princess Purity, though nothing he said could be heard at such a distance. Then he disappeared into the woods.

  “Is he gone?”

  “Yes, he’s gone, Zeph,” Purity said, stepping out of the tower window. She slumped into a nearby chair, across a table from a warty, old witch. “He’ll be back, though.” Just then, something hit her on the side of the head.

  “There’s yer bloody shoe back!” the dragon said, sticking her muzzle through the window. “If ya think yer daein’ that agin, yer off yer heid. I nearly lost an ear, ya daft wee scunner.”

  “Sorry,” Purity said, as she retrieved her shoe and put it back on. “But if one of those knights realizes it’s all a front, they could expose the whole operation.”

  “Aye, an’ if the dragon has ta’ be doon one ear, so be it, eh?”

  “Don’t be a baby, Pam,” Zeph said. “It’s just a scratch.” The witch fetched her sewing kit and began to suture the wound.

  Princess Purity took the chance to slip downstairs and pick out some clothes for the evening. She returned wearing soft leather shoes, woven leggings, and a grey cloak that matched the color of the tower stones. In the meantime, Pam had been sewn up, and was now purring as the witch scratched her nose.

  “No armor?” Zeph asked, when she saw what Purity was wearing. “They’ll have crossbows, you know.”

  “I intend to armor myself by not being shot at.”

  “Are ye sure?” Pam asked. “We’re lookin’ at more guards than yah’ve dealt with a’fore. They’ll gee yeh a right smart if yer not careful.”

  “Then I�
��ll be careful,” Purity said. “Can we go over the operation, please?”

  The witch brought out the maps and plans and walked them through it. The operation was indeed a tricky one, but if successful, it would go a long way to ridding the Petty Kingdom of Camhaidan of its petty leadership. Tonight’s theft of the privy council’s account books would mark the culmination of a plan that was years in the making, started after her Uncle Dundas poisoned her father, took over as regent, and promptly drained the royal treasury.

  “Accoutrements?” Purity asked, when Zeph had concluded her briefing.

  The witch handed a chicken foot to Purity, who after years of doing this, knew enough not to turn her nose up. Zeph explained, “For opening locked windows from the outside. I’ve imbued it with an insubstantiality charm that should allow it to pass through glass, and a limiting cantrip to stop it going through your fingers or your backpack.”

  Pam sniffed the air. “What about to the rest a’ the chicken? Is it here? Can I have it?”

  Zeph shook her head. “I was going to cook it, but it must have caught the insubstantiality charm through sympathetic resonance, without catching the limiting cantrip. Damn thing fell straight through the table, and the floor too. Must be halfway to the Earth’s core by now.”

  Shaking her head in commiseration with Pam, Zeph next handed over a skeleton key, which Purity was already quite acquainted with, having used it in several past operations.

  “And what about this knockout bottle?” Purity indicated a little clay beer bottle with a wooden dowel where the cork would usually go.

  “I’ve made several improvements since you last used one.”

  “I hope so. Last time, I woke up two days later, in a dank cell.”