It sounded like an answer, but it did not feel like one. When Merris tried to back away, she found she could not move.
The Lady came toward her. She could swear she heard the rustle of scales. The Lady’s gait was eerily smooth—but ladies were trained to walk so, gliding in their long skirts. She could not be slithering over that too-smooth floor like a great snake.
Her hand brushed Merris’ cheek. It was warm and dry. “So young,” she said. “And growing quite lovely. We have not always been blessed with beauty. Your bravery is impressive, though some might call it foolishness. Is that your young man yonder? Or a loyal servant?”
“A friend,” Merris said thickly. “It’s just a friend.”
The Lady’s smile was as patronizing as any adult’s in the face of a child’s silliness. “Just a friend. Yes. We may keep him, if he pleases us. Every Lady needs a friend.”
Merris bit her tongue. There was no way she was going to tell the Lady what Coryn really was. She had been very, very foolish—just how foolish, she was only beginning to understand. If she lived through this, she would never again sneer at a character in a story for doing something so demonstrably stupid that the veriest idiot would know better.
And no, she was not going to blame Coryn’s Companion for getting her into this. She had done it herself, with or without anyone else’s advice.
The Lady’s hands came to rest on her shoulders. They applied no pressure, but they held Merris rooted. Her eyes were black, glittering in the waning light. “So lovely,” she said. “So young. Blood so sweet with innocence—and just a tang of arrogance. You highborn are so sure that the world is yours to own.”
“And you’re not highborn?”
The Lady blinked. Had it startled her that Merris could still speak? But then she laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “I am much, much older than your Lords and princes.”
Merris fought to get away. She could not move at all. The Lady’s nostrils flared, as if Merris’ anger and frustration and her swelling terror had an intoxicating scent.
“So sweet,” the Lady said, almost a purr. “So strong. I did well when I chose you. Young blood is precious, but young blood that is strong—that serves me very well indeed.”
“I’ll never serve you,” Merris said through gritted teeth.
“No,” said the Lady, “but your blood and body will. It was most enterprising of you to come early. Convenient, too. Pomp and circumstance have their amusements, but the crowds can be distracting—and there are so many questions. I’ll take you now, then, with many thanks.”
Her grip tightened. Her smile had grown wide—unnaturally so. Her face was changing, stretching. It had a strange look.
A snake, Merris thought, getting ready to swallow its prey. Except, why swallow her own heir? What—
A snake also shed its skin. Suppose it put on another one. Younger, prettier, stronger—able to feign the appearance of humanity, and thereby to avoid suspicion while it fed on its people.
The Lady did not want Merris. She wanted Merris’ body. And Merris had walked straight into her lair.
She must have been doing this for years—centuries. Life after life, body after body. But . . .
“Where are the children?” Merris asked. “The old people, I could see why they would go to feed you, but if there aren’t any children, where is the next generation?”
The Lady stopped. Her face was almost but not quite stretched out of recognition. She could still talk, though the words sounded odd. “I was hungry. Had to feed—keep the body alive. The cattle will breed more. Soon. Now the new body is here.”
Merris fought with every scrap of will she had, but she was bound fast. The Lady was not human any more; she was all mouth and supple, scaled body. She rose above Merris, maw gaping wide.
The world exploded in white fire. Someone was shouting—screaming words that made no sense at all.
The spell on Merris let go. She dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. A white wall reared above her. Silver hooves struck, battering the great worm.
It burst like a bladder. Black blood sprayed. The stink of it turned Merris’ stomach inside out. Everything that had ever died or rotted was in that stench, and every festering sickness.
Selena trampled it into the cave’s floor. Her teeth were bared and her ears flat to her skull. Coryn clung to her back, making no effort to stop her, though she went on long after there was nothing more than a wet smear on the waxy stone.
The Companion stood still. Her light had dwindled to a moonlit glow. Her ears were still slanted back and her nostrils were wrinkled in disgust, but her fury was gone.
She blew out her breath in a sudden and explosive snort. Coryn jumped so hard he almost fell off. Merris found herself on her feet, arms wrapped around Selena’s neck, holding on for dear life.
A tiny part of her gibbered that she could be killed, too. She was the Lady’s heir, after all.
But Selena was calming down even more, relaxing little by little. Her neck bent around, but only to nuzzle Merris’ hair. She sighed into it; if she had been human, Merris thought she would have sagged in relief.
“We got here in time,” Coryn said for his Companion. “Dear gods, that was close!”
“Did you know?” Merris asked. “What she was?”
“We suspected,” Coryn said. He had the grace to look a little shamefaced. “Selena is sorry she let you be bait. She’s also sorry she took so long to get here. She had to wait for the change, to catch the thing at its weakest point, when it was completely focused on you. But still . . . that was close.”
Merris thrust herself away from the Companion. The flash of temper warmed her, which was a good thing—she had been cold to the bone. “I did not let anyone do anything. Any stupidity I committed, I did entirely on my own.”
:And bravery, too.:
That was not a voice, precisely. It was a woman’s, or at least female. Blue eyes glowed in it.
The Companion’s approval washed over Merris. It was a gift. Merris decided, after due consideration, to accept it.
By the day before Merris’ birthday, Herald Isak was well enough to sit in the garden and enjoy his Companion’s company. It was a beautiful day, not too warm for the time of year, and the roses were in full bloom.
There was still going to be a celebration, though Darkwall’s Lady would not be attending it. People from Forgotten Keep were in Darkwall, helping its people to recover from their spell-born confusion and the grief and rage that came with it. Merris had come back from there the day before, because she needed to see her father and her childhood home again—and because Coryn’s Companion had told her she should.
Selena was there, too, with Coryn. The Companion had allowed Merris to braid roses in her mane. Coryn seemed to think she looked silly, but she was pleased with herself. Selena was more than a little vain.
Herald Isak smiled at them. “It was good of you to come back,” he said to Merris.
“I couldn’t refuse a Companion’s summons,” she said, “and I wanted to be here.”
He nodded. “You’ve done well. Darkwall will prosper now, I think.”
“I hope so,” she said. Something about his smile made her add, “It’s true, isn’t it? You didn’t come here by accident. You were sent to deal with Darkwall.”
“We were exploring the region,” he admitted, “and we meant to investigate certain rumors that we had heard. We weren’t quite expecting matters to turn out as they did. We were thinking more on the lines of saving an innocent from a terrible fate, then making what order we could.”
“And so you did,” she said. “I’m grateful.”
“We’re grateful to you for proving yourself so well fit for the office.”
“Am I?” she asked. “I’m hardly more than a child. Now that . . . thing . . . is gone, someone else can take the Keep. Someone older. Wiser. Better fit to rule.”
“But,” said Isak, “you were raised and trained for it. It was meant to be a
ruse, an elaborate lie, but it was well done. We’ve already sent our recommendation to the King, and we’re sure he’ll approve it. You are the Lady of Darkwall.”
Merris supposed she should raise more of a fuss, but the truth was, she agreed with him. It scared her—and well it should. Darkwall had a long way to go before it felt like home. But with her father’s help and maybe some assistance from the King as well, she could turn that poor broken valley into the prosperous domain it had pretended to be.
“And, of course,” Isak continued through the babble of her thoughts, “now the spell is broken and these lands are open to us again, Heralds will come here more often. In fact, his majesty wonders if Darkwall would be amenable to the presence of one of his own for a while, to help as needed and guide when he can.”
“I’m sure Darkwall would be pleased to accept such a gift,” Merris said. Her words were cool, but her heart was beating hard. “You’ll be coming to Darkwall, then? Are you well enough to travel?”
“I will be,” Isak said, “but I’m not the one the King has in mind.” His smile slanted toward Coryn. “There is one whose Internship is just about complete, who is ready for a posting. His Majesty wonders if, since he and his Companion have served Darkwall so well already, whether—”
It was the height of impoliteness to interrupt, and a gentleperson never let out a whoop, but Merris was guilty of the one and Coryn of the other. “Yes!” she said through his eruption. “Yes, we would be pleased.”
She glared at him. He scowled back. Then they grinned. Selena pushed between them, snorting and shaking rose petals from her mane. Let them never forget, her every move said, to whom the credit really belonged.
“Never!” they said together—then broke out laughing.
It was going to be a very interesting association.
Not only that, thought Merris. Partnership, too. And above all, and perhaps most best of all, friendship.
NAUGHT BUT DUTY
by Michael Z. Williamson
Michael Z. Williamson is variously, an immigrant from the UK and Canada, a twenty-year veteran of the U.S. Army and U.S. Air Force, a bladesmith, and a science fiction, fantasy, military fiction, technical author and political satirist. He lives near Indianapolis with his wife Gail, whom he helped graduate Army Basic Training at age thirty-six, their children Morrigan and Eric, and various cats that will assist in taking over the world any day now. He can be found online at
www.MichaelZWilliamson.com
and
www.SharpPointyThings.com
THE aftermath of a battle was always confusing and ugly. Arden rode through the fractured pockets of suffering, surveying everything with trained eyes. His concern was practical, casualties and effect; there was little pleasure in this aspect.
Pleasure came from a well-planned and executed attack, a lightning raid against a larger force that inflicted casualties while keeping his own troops whole, a good maneuver around the flank of a worthy foe, or a feint that misdirected an enemy so the Toughs cracked his shield wall or line of battle.
The burning huts, the moaning, writhing bodies and the indignities and rape weren’t pleasurable to any but the crass, the coward, or the pervert. A common soldier could be forgiven a few hours’ brutality in the aftermath, his partner’s blood still splashed on his tunic. But pain inflicted against helpless civilians as a punitive measure was the mark of a scared weakling.
Crass, coward, pervert, scared weakling. Those words well described the Toughs’ current employer, Lord Miklamar. Jobs had been few and far between, and it had been necessary to move farther south to find employ. But the quality of the ruler varied greatly, and Arden had little time to sound out prospects. His concern had been for good and reliable pay with enough action to keep his troops interested, not enough to wipe out them or his reputation. Here in Acabarrin, the petty lords paid well enough, and the action was steady. But with the King dead, the squabbling princes and heirs, vassal-lords and slavering, powermad seekers were carving the corpse of the Kingdom to nothing. He’d known nothing of Miklamar’s reputation when he accepted the contract. He despised the man now that he did.
Arden’s reputation, and that of the Toughs, was still safe. Barring an occasional looted trinket and scavenged arms and armor, his soldiers had left the village alone, and were drawn back up in formation awaiting his orders. The colors of a household unit they had not, but discipline, pride, and the poise of professionals they did.
Arden grimaced a bare fraction of an inch; watching six of Miklamar’s troops stretch a young woman, girl really, out on the ground. She screamed as they tore at her silken clothes. No mere peasant, she, but more likely the daughter of the chief or mayor, whatever he would be called around this land. Arden watched, acting as witness. Little he could do, other than remember the event. Nearby, others hacked a young man to pieces for the crime of having dared protect his house with a pruning hook.
Fire and blood tinged the air, turning the fresh breeze sickly sweet and metallic. Such a sunset was an ill omen for others. Arden turned his mount and headed out from the village, back past the lines of the allied force.
Ahead was the mounted figure he’d have to deal with, no matter how much it disgusted him. Shakis, the regional deputy to Miklamar, and the mind behind this battle. If “battle” could be applied to a bloody, one-sided slaughter and the present butchery.
He nodded in salute as he drew up. It was respect for the rank of the man who had bought his services, and nothing more. The gesture was not returned, which was as he expected.
“Lord Shakis, I see no point in brutalizing such peasants as these. It hardly seems worth the effort.” It was a hint, and far more diplomatic than he wanted to phrase it. “There are other enemies we could seek.”
Shakis gazed at him. The sneering contempt he had for the “mercenary” was concealed, but cut through to the surface anyway, flickering firelight from a blazing roof making it an even uglier caricature.
“It serves many purposes. The peasants will spread the word, that resistance brings only woe. It improves the take and the pay for my men. And it allows them some release, to take vengeance on enemy scum. It ensures they will have the right mindset for next time.”
My men, Arden thought. Only male soldiers here. Arden would say my troops, because one in twenty was a woman. That had been part of the contract negotiations, too, as had swearing fealty to their employer’s god. Arden had conceded on a temporary allegiance to their god, whose name he’d already forgotten, but had demanded his women warriors be kept. He would have canceled the bargain otherwise. All his soldiers were worthy, and he wouldn’t allow any suggestion otherwise.
The right mindset, he thought. That of the bully and the coward and the robber. His own sneering contempt was locked down deep. It was not something he would share. No successful mercenary did.
“After the evening’s Triumph, will there be another movement?” he asked evenly.
Shakis missed the sarcasm, or ignored it, and said, “There will. Two more towns along this front require attention. Each will be a harder fight. Are your men up to it?”
“My troops are,” he agreed. “If you are done with us for now, my troops and I will encamp for the night, about a mile south. We are in need of rest and to care for our gear and horses.”
“As you wish, though the revelry will last all night.” Shakis chuckled and licked his lips slightly. The man was handsome enough physically, but his demeanor would strike fear into any civilian wench unlucky enough to meet him.
Arden wished he’d known of that ahead of time.
“Rest, and care of our gear and horses,” he repeated. “We have our own revels planned.” With ale they’d brought and hired wenches who were part of the entourage. Women who didn’t require a fight and wouldn’t slice your throat if you passed out. Ale that wasn’t poisoned at the last minute, or badly brewed and rotten. Though the vengeance and poison were part of Shakis’ calculations, most certainly, so that he could e
xact a price in response. Unprofessional. A professional took pride in his work, but didn’t needlessly create more.
Another day, another battle. The town of Kiri. Arden scarcely remembered which were which anymore. It was easy to remember the towns where tough, honorable battles were fought. Likewise the ones where they’d rescued an employer’s forces. The little villages, however, were never memorable, which made him uncomfortable. They were people, too.
The price of honor, he thought. The stock in trade of a mercenary company was its competence and reliability. The ragged bands of sword fodder never amounted to much, nor earned much. Only the best units did.
Which made those best the equal of any state or nation’s army in quality and outlook. Which offended said “official” armies and earned sneers. Sneers the Toughs and the few outfits like them knew were part jealousy and part ignorance. And once you knew you were morally above the people you worked for . . .
It was rough work, and a conscience was both necessary and a hindrance. The Toughs owed allegiance to each other only. They protected each other at work, and in the taverns and camps afterward. They thought not too hard about their opponents of the moment, who would shortly be defeated or dead as part of a cold deal and a week’s pay and food.
So Arden, as Kenchen before him, Ryala before Kenchen, and Thoral who’d founded the Toughs tried for only the best contracts. Supporting a proud state at its border or chasing bandits were the choicest tasks. Caravan escort was boring but honorable, as was guard duty at a border town or trading center. But there were few such jobs, and between starvation and ethics was a gray line.
Once again the Toughs cracked the defenses of the town that stood in the way of Miklamar’s plan for expansion or peace or world conquest or whatever his motivation was. Were Arden a strategic planner for a nation, he’d find that information and use it. As a mercenary commander, he stuck to the closer, more local concerns of food, support, and pay. Thinking too much made working for such people harder.
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