Terribly Twisted Tales

by RABE, JEAN

The unseen crowd jeered them.

  “The round is forfeit,” a voice came over the public address system. “Warriors, to the center of the arena! Kill or die!”

  That’s it, Androye thought hopelessly. Out of the glare trotted a double file of bare-chested men in black leather trousers and black masks. They brandished an array of ancient weapons that looked like primitive surgical equipment. The blades were stained with many colors of blood, the residue from today’s kills. The healer’s oath demanded that he save life whenever possible. There was only one way.

  He dropped his sword and spread out his arms. “I can’t hurt you, Lraou. Kill me. Save yourself.”

  “I owe you my life,” Lraou roared. “I will protect you. Get behind me.”

  The professionals had seen attempts at a last minute alliance before. The leaders even grinned at Lraou and Androye as they spread out in a ring around the pair. It would be over in moments. Androye braced himself to die.

  That was when the screaming began.

  A narrow craft like a lightning bolt streaked across the arena. It disgorged a barrage of round lumps. Each lump took flight in a different direction. Three of them dropped directly toward Androye. He threw himself on Lraou to shield him. A BOOM! deafened him and sand flew up in a choking cloud. More stunners pelted the stands, the grounds, the lighting fixtures, until the entire complex was in a welter of confusion.

  The sleek craft whisked around against the now blackened ceiling and skidded in for a landing. Androye dashed sand out of his eyes in time to see nine huge Corexes bound toward Lraou and dig him free.

  “We are pursued, your grace,” the leader said. “We must hurry.”

  “We take this Orskian,” Lraou announced, seizing Androye by his arm. “He is my new physician. He has saved my life twice. I claim him.”

  “As you please, your grace! Hurry!”

  Lraou threw Androye over his shoulder and sprang after his rescuers into the ship.

  It did not take long before pursuit began. Security was tight around the government’s main buildings. The sleek ship was more nimble than the gunships, and it had speed. Androye did not feel a single blast shake the hull before they cleared atmosphere.

  “Good riddance,” he said. “Lraou—your grace—I can’t thank you enough for saving me.”

  “A life for a life,” the Corex said. He peeled off the half-mask and threw it aside. “I still owe you one.”

  “I will trade that gladly if you will take me home to Orskia,” Androye said, thinking of Meriglen happily. “Or get me to a neutral port where I can take ship home.”

  “Orskia?” Lraou asked, cocking his head. “No, my friend, you’re coming home with me! We have many patients who could use your skills. Our healers were scattered and killed by the coming of the Dominion. Now they have provided us with a most worthy substitute. You will live well. You shall be my personal physician. I will pay you well. You shall have a title, a manor, anything you require.”

  “But, my wife . . . ! I haven’t seen her in months. I want to go home to her.”

  “My personal guard will retrieve her and bring her to Corex. She will enjoy it there. It is very beautiful. You will see.” Lraou looked at Androye in outrage. “You are not thinking of declining? It is a tremendous honor! You will be with me until I die. You belong to me. I marked you when you saved my life the first time. You cannot decline.”

  Androye took a deep breath to argue, and started coughing. The air inside the ship was laden with the heavy smells of musk and urine. Lraou waited, his eyes glowing. Androye realized that it would not be politic to disagree, not yet. He shook his head. Lraou smiled and sat back.

  “Relax, my friend. This will be the beginning of a new life for you, a good life.”

  A stinking one, Androye thought miserably. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. He had just traded one form of servitude for another.

  I could have let him die, he thought. And just as quickly, an inner voice retorted, No, you couldn’t.

  No, he couldn’t. He knew it. His oath forbade him, his training prevented it, and his personal morals were upset even to entertain the notion. He had lost his chance of freedom yet again. He was a prisoner again, but a prisoner of his own ethics.

  Full of gloom, he sat back in the heavily cushioned couch. Maybe one day he’d get used to the smell.

  THE RED PATH

  Jim C. Hines

  Jim C. Hines has been writing since 1995, which makes him feel old, so he tries not to think about it. His latest book is The Stepsister Scheme, a quirky mash-up of fairy tale princesses and Char-lie’s Angels. (Roudette will probably return for the third book in the series.) He has also written a trilogy about a nearsighted goblin runt named Jig, as well as close to forty short stories for markets such as Realms of Fantasy, Sword & Sorceress XXI, and Turn the Other Chick. You can find him online at www.jimchines.com. As always, he would like to thank his wife and children for putting up with him. Living with a writer ain’t easy.

  Roudette had sinned twice by the time she closed the door. Her first sin was theft. Father had been baking for the past three days in preparation for the Midsummer Festival, when he and the other elders would ask God to renew his blessing upon the town for another year. Even though Roudette believed the church would have smiled upon her goal, she had still taken the muffins and cakes without permission.

  Her second sin was disobedience. Though her parents hadn’t explicitly forbidden her from visiting Grandmother this morning, Roudette knew what they would say if she asked. Respect for one’s elders was a central tenant of the Savior’s Path. She would be punished, and rightfully so, upon her return.

  “Roudette?”

  Perhaps punishment would come even sooner. She turned to see Mother standing in the doorway. Roudette’s little brother, Jaun, peeked from behind brown-painted shutters and stuck out his tongue.

  Roudette’s fingers tightened around the handle of her basket as she planned a third sin. The instant her mother turned away, Jaun was getting a muffin right between the eyes.

  “Inside. Now.” Mother kept her voice low, to avoid drawing the neighbors’ attention. Her gaze slipped past Roudette to the whitewashed homes on the opposite side of the road. Roudette’s father was a Patriarch of the church, the highest office in which a human could serve. Even in a small town, it was a position of great respect. It wouldn’t do for his daughter to be seen quarreling with his wife.

  Roudette spoke softly, out of respect. “Grandmother has been back only a few days. Why can’t I visit—”

  “Your grandmother turned her back on us,” Mother interrupted. “She left the Path. I won’t allow you to follow her into temptation.”

  “But isn’t devotion to family an important part of the Path?”

  “So is obedience.”

  Roudette used one hand to pull her cloak tight. Her fingers brushed the gold symbols embroidered into the blood-red wool. Each symbol was said to represent one step of the Savior’s Path. Descended from Heaven with the rest of fairykind during the uprising, the Savior had sacrificed himself on the cross to protect humanity from God’s wrath.

  Her mother wore a similar cloak, though hers was blue. Roudette would receive her blue cloak when she turned thirteen at the end of the summer. Mother had embroidered hundreds of such cloaks over the years; her skill with the silver needle was unmatched by mortal hands.

  “What if Grandmother hasn’t truly strayed?” Roudette asked, trying a different tactic. “What if she’s simply lost? Perhaps all she lacks is a guide to lead her back?”

  Mother’s hesitation was brief, barely noticeable to anyone who didn’t know her. “Your grandmother has never shown any interest in guidance.”

  “Are you sure?” Roudette asked, pressing her advantage. “Do you know what’s in her heart?”

  It was an unfair question. Only magic could reveal one’s thoughts, and human magic was forbidden by church law.

  “I remember when she left us,” Mothe
r said. “My father tried to stop her. He told us later that she had done terrible things.”

  “Then isn’t it even more important to guide her back?” Roudette asked. “So that she might find forgiveness and be reborn? Midsummer is a time for forgiveness, is it not? The Savior forgave even the human who drove the iron nails through his flesh.”

  Roudette bowed her head and waited. She knew scripture almost as well as her father. They both knew who would win this argument.

  “You’ll return by noon,” Mother said at last. “And for trying to sneak away, you’ll rise early tomorrow and scour the ovens.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Roudette said.

  “The lies of the fallen are seductive,” Mother said. “Don’t let her lead you astray.”

  “Thank you, Mother.” Roudette pulled up her hood and walked away, stopping only when she heard the door close behind her. After making sure nobody else was watching, she opened her basket.

  The muffin struck the left shutter, slamming it against the frame and making Jaun yelp. The Savior would frown on her actions, but he hadn’t grown up with a little brother.

  Roudette pulled a fairy cake from the basket and ate as she walked. Her father used a special brass brand to burn the sign of the cross onto the top of each cake. The jam inside was supposed to represent the blood of the sacrifice.

  Until she was five years old, Roudette had believed the Savior tasted like strawberries.

  She was finishing off the second cake when the cottage came into view. It stood alone in a small clearing atop a hill. Roudette stepped carefully onto a fallen tree that spanned the stream winding past the hill. She crossed the makeshift bridge quickly, as she had done many times through the years. There, looking up at her grandmother’s cottage, she hesitated.

  Curiosity had always been Roudette’s weakness, whether it was exploring the woods or reading the “adult” books her father kept locked away in the church. As far as she could tell, they were the same as the books she had studied when she was younger, only her father’s versions had more begatting.

  It was curiosity that had brought her back to Grandmother’s abandoned cottage each year, trying to imagine where Grandmother had gone. Her last visit had been shortly after Jaun’s birth.

  Then, three days ago, Roudette had discovered smoke rising from the chimney. When she peeked through a window, she had been stunned to find Grandmother butchering a pair of squirrels in the kitchen.

  The sight had wiped all semblance of manners from Roudette’s mind. She burst through the door, squealing like the child she had been when last she saw Grandmother.

  To be fair, Grandmother had smiled to see Roudette’s joy. They embraced, and then Grandmother had studied Roudette for a long time, until the girl began to feel uncomfortable. Finally, Grandmother had shooed Roudette away, saying, “Your parents would spit hellfire if they saw you here with me. Please go, and leave me in peace.”

  What peace could Grandmother have, alone and lost? Curiosity had led Roudette here before, but it was duty that made her return today. Duty to family, to try to save a loved one who had strayed. Brushing crumbs from the front of her cloak, Roudette made her way to the door.

  The air was still today, and the woods were silent, save for the faint trickling of the stream. The green door was open, though the windows were shuttered tight. Roudette stopped in the doorway. She blotted her forehead on the sleeve of her cloak.

  “Grandmother?” There was no answer. Roudette rapped her knuckles on the doorframe as she stepped inside.

  The kitchen was a mess. Flies swarmed over the remains of a rabbit on the floor. Roudette wrinkled her nose.

  A low growl made her jump. The sound had come from the bedroom. Perhaps another animal had snuck into the cottage. A fox or a wolf, or even a wildcat. That must be what had killed the rabbit.

  Roudette grabbed a knife from the counter, clutching the bone handle in sweat-slick fingers. A part of her longed to flee back to the safety of town. But what if the animal had attacked Grandmother? She couldn’t leave.

  “God protect me.” She imagined she could feel her cloak grow warmer in response to her whispered prayer.

  Smears of blood darkened the hard dirt floor leading into the bedroom. Holding the knife in front of her, Roudette peered through the doorway.

  Stretched out on the cot was an enormous silver wolf. Blood matted its side, soaking into the blankets.

  Roudette’s hand shook. She nearly dropped the knife. But there was no sign of Grandmother. Holding her breath, she started to back away.

  Though she made no sound, one of the wolf’s big ears twitched. It turned toward Roudette, its huge eyes spearing her in place.

  The wolf bared its teeth and growled again. Such enormous teeth, no doubt all the better for eating foolish girls who didn’t listen to their mothers’ advice.

  Should she flee, or would that just encourage the wolf to chase her down? Wasn’t that what such beasts did?

  She looked the wolf in its eyes. Was that another mistake? She knew dogs would take a direct stare as a challenge or threat.

  Such big eyes it had. Round and gentle, belying the terror of those teeth. They were pale gray, tinged with blue. A fleck of black marred the ring of the left eye.

  Roudette swallowed, remembering her previous visit and the way Grandmother had stared at her. Grandmother’s left eye had been flecked in exactly the same way as the wolf’s.

  “Grandmother?” Roudette whispered. Thoughts of demons and devils raced through her mind. Those who strayed from the Path were said to be vulnerable to such things. But the wolf had relaxed, and made no move to attack as Roudette took a slow step into the room.

  “What’s happened to you?” She moved closer, her attention drawn to the wound on the wolf’s side. Blood continued to drip from the dark gash between the ribs.

  The wolf sniffed the air and its—her lips drew back in a snarl.

  “What is it?” Roudette asked.

  The wolf sprang from the cot, moving too quickly for Roudette to react. The knife spun away as huge paws clubbed her chest. She slammed to the floor. Teeth snapped at her throat, locking around her cloak. The wolf dragged her farther into the bedroom.

  Roudette tried to break free, but a sharp shake of the wolf’s head left her stunned. The wolf yanked again, and the cloak tore free. The wolf backed away, taking the cloak with her. The gold embroidery was lit up like tiny flames. The material had caught in the wolf’s teeth, and appeared to be causing her pain. The wolf stumbled toward the doorway, pawing at the cloak.

  There were no windows, and the wolf blocked the only escape. Roudette fled into the closet and yanked the door shut behind her. Peeking through the crack, she saw the wolf tearing the cloak apart. The fur around her jaws was blackened, as were her paws where she had touched the cloak. The light from the symbols flickered like candlelight, slowly dying as the wolf destroyed the cloak.

  Roudette held her breath. Her basket lay spilled on the floor, crushed muffins and cakes scattered in the dirt. Blood dripped over torn scraps of red as the wolf limped to the cot, pausing only to growl at the closet.

  Roudette’s hands shook. The door was flimsy. No doubt the wolf could smash right through. But whatever magic had blossomed from Roudette’s cloak had clearly weakened the wolf. Even as the wolf climbed back into the cot, her rear legs collapsed, and she had to try twice more to pull herself onto the sagging mattress.

  “What have you done?” The voice was male, the enunciation clear and perfect. Again the wolf snarled.

  Roudette watched through the crack as a tall man stepped into view. He wore hunter’s garb, a vest of dark green leather over a loose black shirt. Green bracers circled his wrists, and a quiver of arrows was slung over his right shoulder. A golden crucifix hung from a chain round his neck.

  Roudette silently made the sign of the cross. That symbol marked the hunter as a bishop of the church. Roudette had never seen one of the fey so close. Surely he could counter whatev
er curse had taken her grandmother. She started to open the door.

  The wolf lurched to her feet, yipping loudly. In response, the hunter drew a silver-bladed knife. “Don’t play the vicious beast with me. I know what you are.” He nudged the scraps of Roudette’s cloak with his boot and then stooped to pick up one of the bloody pieces. “Feasting on your own kind? You’re lucky the cloak didn’t destroy you.”

  The hunter lunged forward, driving the knife into the wolf’s chest. The wolf’s yip muffled Roudette’s gasp.

  “Or perhaps not so lucky.” He yanked the blade down, and then ripped the skin back with his free hand. His body concealed the gruesome details, but when he finished, he dropped a bloody wolf skin on the floor. Roudette’s grandmother lay curled on the cot, naked save for a leather necklace. Her chest and side were bloody, though the hunter’s blow hadn’t been a deep one.

  He kicked the skin away and then wiped his hands on his trousers. “Filthy, primitive magic.”

  Grandmother coughed. “Grand Bishop Bernas didn’t think so.”

  Roudette started. Grand Bishop Bernas had been one of the founders of the church, more than a hundred years ago. He had died a martyr, fighting a demon to protect his followers.

  The hunter raised his knife and then caught himself. “If you confess, I am authorized to be lenient. Who are you working with, human?”

  Grandmother smiled. Her lips were burned and blistered, her teeth stained with blood. “I work with God. Who do you serve, you fairy serpent?”

  Roudette closed her eyes. Mother was right. Grandmother would never return to the Path. To speak to one of God’s chosen in such a way . . .

  “Are there other skins?”

  “Why, Bishop Tomas, is that fear in your voice?” Tomas’ snarl was as frightening as the wolf’s had been. “Very well. Then you shall feel the fires of damnation.” Without another word, he spun and left.

  As soon as the cottage door slammed behind him, Grandmother rolled onto her side. She groaned and clutched her side. “Roudette?”

  Roudette pushed open the closet door. “Grandmother? I don’t understand. What—”