The Mermaid's Tale

by D. G. Valdron

That was a thought. I came over to her, seized her shoulder.

  My heart was pounding, my blood singing, I wanted to take her and fling her around like a rag doll, fear and rage roared within me. I controlled them with an effort.

  “Tell them,” I said, “tell them it wasn’t me. Tell them what happened. Tell them to leave me alone.”

  “You’re an odd one... I would have liked to talk to you perhaps. But who talks to beasts? Who would have thought an abomination had anything to say worth listening to.”

  She closed her eyes, and mumbled unintelligible words. I listened for a second, they were words clearly formed, but not a speech I’d ever heard.

  “Men,” she said clearly, “understand war. But they don’t understand death. That’s a bad combination.”

  That made no sense. She was dying and her mind was going.

  I shook her, wanting to scream, needing her to stay, for her mind to remain, but trying to keep my voice calm.

  “Tell them,” I said.

  “Won’t help.” Her words were getting fainter and fainter. “They’ll kill you first.”

  “I’ll kill them,” I said furiously. “Whoever comes in I’ll kill. You tell them.”

  “By the time they’re ready to listen to me, I’ll be dead. And so will you.”

  “What good are you then?” I snapped irritably. I lifted my hand to strike her, but pulled it away. It was not her fault; it would do no good to hit her.

  “Why do you take so long to die?” I spat peevishly instead.

  I leaped to the door.

  “Arrah Arrah Arrah!” I bellowed at it. I heard them cursing on the other side.

  She whispered something.

  I swung back to her.

  “Ano Aro Avo,” she whispered. Then more gutturals in that strange language.

  I cocked my head.

  “Death blessing... “ she whispered, her voice almost lost in bubbles. Red foam filled her mouth. She coughed, trying to clear it, and only spouted more blood.

  “Men don’t understand death. But women always have. You’re a sort of woman. I want blessing, help me and I’ll save your life.”

  “How?”

  “Ano Aro...” she coughed.

  “Avo...” I finished.

  “Clever animal,” she almost smiled. “Say the word for each pause.”

  She seemed to gather her strength, and then uttered a short guttural sentence in unknown language.

  “Ano,” I replied.

  Behind us, the door started to splinter. The sounds coming more clearly through it. I jumped and hissed at it.

  Again, a guttural sentence, similar to the first, but different. She seemed to break off midway through and had to start again.

  “Ah... Aro,” I grunted. I danced on my feet, hopping from side to side, flying around the room, searching for a weapon or means of escape.

  Another string of sounds.

  “Avo,” I said quickly, almost before she finished.

  Something went out of her then. She seemed to relax suddenly, she coughed, blood gushing from her mouth. I thought she was dead. But then she raised her head to look at me.

  “Remember this,” she said, and uttered more words in the strange language. “Say it to the first woman you meet alone. She will protect you.”

  I stopped, dead cold.

  “What?”

  She spoke the sentence, mumbling through the blood in her mouth. I repeated it. It was gibberish, I’d never heard anything like it.

  With palpable effort, she said the words again. “Repeat.”

  I tried to make the same sounds.

  “Again...”

  Useless. Useless. Useless. I turned and screamed at the door, roaring my fear and rage.

  They were almost through. Another moment and they’d knock it down. A moment after that, they’d come rushing through at me, or fill me with arrows.

  “Ar-” I was ready to scream.

  I glanced back at the old Dwarf. Wheezing painfully, choking on her own blood, she lifted her hand, pointing at a small panel in one wall.

  I leaped in the direction she pointed, kicking and pounding at the panel. It was hollow, there was a space behind it. Mindlessly, I battered and pulled and pushed at it until a hidden latch snapped and I felt it open inwards. It was hinged from the top. The hole, a narrow shaft, beyond smelled of excrement. I had a last glimpse of the dying old woman. I dove through it feet first, scrambling madly. It led down. The narrow walls were slick, there was almost no room to move my arms, I half fell, half slid down, falling free.

  Then angry shouts.

  I hit the bottom, liquid excrement splashing straight up and drenching me. My feet slammed through the refuse to the stone bottom. Shock numbed my legs. As I grunted with pain, it filled my mouth, I gagged, half coughing, half vomiting, fearing the noise I was making.

  Panic, like the panic when I was surrounded by water. I was going to drown in shit, I thought. I pushed my fear down. No, no, they had windows all up and down to stick their asses through and shit into the pit. I could climb up somehow.

  But wait, I thought with sudden clarity, sooner or later, it would just fill up. They must empty it. There must be a door lower, around me. I bent my knees, trying to feel.

  Something clattered down the shaft, knocking against the sides, I felt my shoulder pad jerk, and then a splash in front of me. An arrow: they were shooting arrows down the shaft, but there wasn’t enough room, they couldn’t aim, the arrows couldn’t get speed, that’s what had saved me.

  The shaft wall was different here on this side. It felt different. I pushed but had no leverage. I sunk deeper. Up above another arrow clattered down and splashed into the excrement. I sank down, got my knee up, feet flat and pushed hard with my legs.

  The wall of the shaft behind me let go, and suddenly, I was out in a darkened basement room.

  I fled through the next room, ran through a door farthest from the direction of the Dwarves. It lead to a staircase. I turned and fled the other direction, scattering shit everywhere, stumbling out into daylight past startled Dwarves. The sight of me, drenched in shit, was so bizarre they could not react. From the building I heard outraged bellows.

  Dwarves were staring at me.

  “Arrah,” I snarled and rushed, scattering them before me. Which way to go? Which way was out? Not to the gates, there’d be guards there. Which way then? The river. Dive for the river, wash this off me. Without the stench I had a chance to hide.

  The ice traders brought ice down by the river. It had to be close by. I paused for a second, trying to pick its direction out. That way.

  A group of armed Dwarves turned a corner. For a second, we froze, staring at each other. Then they charged. I fled into a building. They followed howling. Behind them, came the Dwarves from the other building.

  I raced up the first flight of stairs, frightening a mother and child, then leaped from a window. I hit the ground rolling and was on my feet. A straggler Dwarf was right in front of me. I jerked the spear from his hand and straight-armed him as I ran past.

  Where was the river? I couldn’t see it, there were too many buildings in the way. People were screaming. I rushed forward, scurrying around one building after another. I scrambled down an alley only to find a dead end. I climbed through a window. It was a kitchen, a pot over a fire. Where was everyone? Had they fled? Or were they rushing to see the commotion?

  I rushed to the pot, put my hand on its surface. Hot, but not boiling. The stew was still cold. I put my hand in and it was not scalded. I shoved both arms in up to the elbow, wiping myself. I plunged my head in, dragging fingers through my hair, taking a mouthful and spitting it. Then I pulled the stew pot from the fire, pouring it over myself.

  I’d no weapons, they’d taken them. But the kitchen was full of knives. I grabbed a cleaver,
testing the feel of it. There were a pair of long knives. I stuck them in my belt.

  A door opened. A young Dwarf woman saw me, tried to shriek and turn to flee. I leaped upon her, knocking her to the floor. The kitchen was too big for one servant, there’d be others. How long.

  Kill her, I thought. Cut her throat and then run before the others came and sounded an alarm. I looked into her eyes.

  She was scared.

  She was so scared, her fear was absolute, like my own. I felt bad suddenly, that I was going to kill her. That she’d die, like the dwarves up above, like the old woman. Was she still dying now, mumbling to herself. Would she approve? No.

  Suddenly, as clearly as if she was right there in my ear, I heard her voice again. “Say the words to the first woman you meet alone.”

  I grabbed her, lifting her with me as I slammed the door shut.

  Covering her mouth to quiet her, I said the words.

  She went absolutely still. For a moment, the only sound was the sound of our panting.

  I said the words again, this time more carefully.

  Her eyes were shocked.

  I took my hand from her mouth.

  She spoke the strange language of the old woman at me.

  “Help me,” I told her in the plainest Dwarf I could manage and then repeated the phrase.

  There was a hammering at the door. We both jumped. For a second, she looked nervously from it to me, and then seemed to make an instant decision.

  “Here,” she whispered, taking my hand. She led me to a wooden bin, just large enough to hold me. I got in as she pulled handfuls of coarse fir branches to cover it.

  There was angry shouting at the door.

  I heard her run to it, listened to the barking exchange of words. At length, the ones on the other side of the door seemed to go away. I waited, listening. I didn’t hear the door open.

  What magic had been in the old woman’s words?

  The fir branches were pulled away. The Dwarf was there, staring at me in something like awe. I climbed out of the bin, towering over her.

  “Are they gone?”

  “They’re still searching. I told them you were here, but fled through another passage. I told them I had locked myself in for fear, and would not open, not even for them. It won’t be safe for a while. You must wait.”

  I cocked my head.

  “How far to the river?”

  “You have to go to the caveholm,” she said.

  What?

  I cocked my head. That seemed to intimidate her. She stepped back warily.

  “Wait. It’s not safe,” she repeated desperately. “You have to wait here and go to the caveholm.”

  Her nose almost twitched. She was smelling me.

  Caveholm?

  She was frightened of me. Badly frightened. And confused. But there was something else. She should have wanted to be rid of me. But she insisted on... Caveholm?

  I tried to master my own fear and think.

  I was too far inside the City to get out. Not with a half dozen bodies behind me. The only reason I was alive was because this girl had sheltered me.

  “Caveholm,” I repeated, trying to make myself sound certain. Sound like a statement, not a question.

  With an effort I grunted and stepped back against the wall, crouching down.

  “Wait,” I said. “I will wait. For Caveholm.”

  That seemed to satisfy her.

  “Yes,” she said quickly, backing up. “Wait here.”

  She looked around, taking in the scene for the first time.

  “What did you do?” she asked, aghast.

  The stewpot was rolled into a corner, the fire half soaked and smoking, tables turned, wood shattered. I’d made a mess in my panic. She looked at me, not fearing, but wondering.

  “You smell like shit,” she said, sounding surprised, “and turnips... And stew.”

  I grinned, showing heavy fangs. It was all I could think to do.

  “Arrah,” I told her, by way of explanation, and shrugged.

  Then she was out the door before I could move to stop her. I cursed myself for a moment, for allowing her to leave. What now? Wait here in uncertain safety, or go out and risk inevitable danger? Neither appealed to me.

  I rocked back and forth on my heels, before finally settling down and crouching just inside the door. That way, at least, I’d see whoever came in before they saw me. My nose wrinkled.

  But they’d smell me first.

  When the door opened a few minutes later, it turned out to be just the girl. She carried an wooden bucket and a coarse woven cloak.

  The bucket sloshed as she set it down.

  “For you to wash the smell off,” she said.

  She hovered uncertainly, shifting from foot to foot. She looked like she wanted to say something but didn’t quite know what.

  “I told everyone that you had fouled the room, not to come in, not till I gathered help to clean. But you should hide,” she said finally. “In case anyone comes. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

  I nodded. And then she was gone.

  I drank some of the water. Then used the rest to wash, scraping my skin and my clothes with tree branches just like the old days. The kitchen food was inedible Dwarf stuff, mashed roots baked hard. I spat it out.

  Waited.

  The minutes dragged on and I found myself reviewing the fight again.

  Two arrows launched. Looking back, I was sure of that. I’d moved at the sound of the first one, the second I’d barely dodged. Now that I thought of it, the first arrow couldn’t have been for me.

  One archer had shot the other.

  The second had been loosing at me, his aim spoiled when the arrow had struck him.

  Only one archer was a pawn of the Snow Leopards, I decided. He’d killed the other archer.

  The Archer and the Snow Leopard Dwarf would have killed everyone else, me, the old man, the old woman, archer, mutilated the bodies, and told their tale. It made sense that way. Sort of.

  Why didn’t he shoot me first? No Arukh was fast enough to dodge an arrow in the back. Instead, he’d killed the other archer.

  That didn’t make sense.

  Shoot me first, and then, in the confusion, shoot the other archer.

  Suddenly, with a moment of crystal insight, as if it was happening again in front of me, I realized that it was the second archer aiming at me.

  The first had killed him to save me. He’d caused the second archer’s shot to go wild, glancing off hitting the old woman.

  Even in that room, even in that moment, it had been the Dwarves scheming against each other, plots upon plots.

  And then I’d killed the first archer.

  The Snow Leopards had been willing to kill to protect their secret. The White Bears had been willing to kill to expose it.

  I’d killed the one who saved my life.

  I stood up and walked around the small room restlessly, my body swinging from side to side. I grunted softly.

  It bothered me that I had killed he who saved me. That was a poor reward. I’d been scared, I hadn’t known. I thought he was going to kill me.

  But he’d saved my life, and I killed him for it. My excuses felt hollow.

  I didn’t like to think about it. I wanted to run, to walk away, to do something. But there was nothing to do but think about the dead archer.

  “I am sorry I killed you, Dwarf,” I whispered to the air.

  There was a noise at the door.

  I scrambled to my hiding place in the bin.

  A middle-aged Dwarf female crept into the room, holding a lance at ready. She advanced on my bin until we could see each other plainly.

  I said the magical words.

  Like the other, she seemed to freeze. She cocked her head and s
aid something in the strange language. Then she retreated. I was alone with my dead archer again.

  I remembered how he’d looked as I shoved the point of the arrow up under his jaw into his brain.

  “Poor reward,” I whispered.

  But he was long past hearing me. I was alone with the memories of the dead.

  I wondered about the girl. If found, I’d likely be killed. Would she be punished if they found she’d protected me? Perhaps even killed herself? What would happen to her? There was little more to do than wonder.

  Too long a time passed.

  Finally, the door opened.

  “It’s all right,” the girl whispered. There were a half dozen other female Dwarves were with her. They looked nervous.

  “We’re here to take you to the caveholm,” she said.

  The other women were staring at me. Involuntarily, my head bobbed.

  “Say something,” she whispered. “You’re scaring them.”

  I nodded carefully and spoke the magic words. It didn’t seem to calm them, if anything, they grew more agitated.

  They dragged in a large wicker box, with two carrying poles hanging off its sides. They began emptying it, pulling out cloths and brushes, scrapers and earthen jars. Several of them began to clean out the kitchen. Two dragged the pot across the floor, examining it as they wrestled it back into place. Another gathered the knives from the floor. She stopped in front of me and stared. I handed over the kitchen knives I’d taken.

  “Get in,” she said, “we’ll carry you to the caveholm.”

  No one was more surprised than I when I got in the box without protest. I supposed I would find out what the caveholm was.

  You have to trust sometimes.

  I was hunched forward, my head between my knees, as the basket lurched back and forth for what seemed an infinitely long time. I had the sense of being outdoors for a time, then entering another building. Then going down.

  Finally, the basket opened. I looked out. The jagged points of a kra lance hovered over me. I stared down its length. A naked Dwarf female held it. She was young and muscular, the curly hair on her arms and legs, thick and black.

  She backed off a step. As the lance withdrew, I stood, feeling my back creaking. I luxuriated in being able to move again.