Brigands (Blackguards)

by “Melanie Meadors”

  “Fucking—!” Isa went to fire his repeater, but the bullet in his shoulder started channeling arcane. Blue light poured out of his wound and worked its way through his veins. In a matter of seconds, the air around him flash froze. Falling droplets condensed into crystals, webbed out until Isa was little more than a human-shaped ice statue, trapped between bars of frozen rain.

  By then, the others had started to open fire, but Isa’s body was acting as a decent shield while Evaline dismounted. Her boots struck the muddy road just as Isa exploded into a mass of crimson frost and bone. She whispered another word and her revolver went red. A blind shot at her attackers’ feet boiled the pooling water, sending up a cloud of hot steam and wisps of transient flame.

  The group scattered, crying out in pain when their exposed flesh came back cooked. Evaline took long strides towards her attackers, emptying her remaining four rounds at their chests. Each connecting shot threw a bright red light out of their mouths, and concluded by channeling enough arcane to conjure fires worthy of a forge behind their ribs.

  Their torsos erupted, one after another, throwing embers and burnt entrails across the road and down the escarpment. One of the men flailed, still clinging to life after being blown in half. Evaline, still seeing red in her vision, unsheathed her sword and brought it down upon the hillsman’s forehead, splitting it cleanly to the bridge of his nose.

  Evaline didn’t give herself time to think, to take in the macabre scene she’d created. She quickly about-faced and remounted her horse, and drove it forward over blood and splintered bone.

  WILBUR FELL TO his knees and gripped Evaline’s duster with both hands. “Just give me a chance!” he begged. “They have to be paying you something. I can double it! Triple it! Mayor Meeker must have told you while he was here. The two of us go way back. He’ll surely crack the treasury if it means saving my life. Damn you, ask him!”

  Evaline shook her head. “I won’t be doing that.”

  “We have savings! We have this land! We can get you the money!”

  “Mayor Meeker paid me to take the kid’s body back to the commonage. The ’rath sage paid me again, and you’re trying to pay me to leave. What does that say about me, huh? What does that say about my morals if they can be redirected like a bitch on a leash? There has to be something immovable here, and this is gonna be it.”

  Evaline chuckled and pulled Wilbur further into the barley. There was no moon and the storm was still building heavy overhead, but she thought she could still pick out the spot where Wilbur had killed the Sharath boy. “No sea captain could sail his ship by my moral compass, gods know. But we’ll change that together, John. You and me.”

  She planted a swift kick on Wilbur’s back and the man tumbled over. Wilbur attempted to crawl away, but hearing the hammer being pulled back on the revolver was enough to dissuade him from going any further.

  “There are worse ways to die, friendo,” she said.

  Wilbur sat back on his haunches, looked up to watch the storm clouds roil and threaten to burst. “I suppose you’d know,” he exhaled.

  “Oh, yes, I would most definitely know.”

  “Just make it quick.”

  “Tell me how you killed the ’rath.”

  Wilbur looked over. “What?”

  “All cultures have their deviants. The Sharath included, but I don’t think the one you killed fell into that bin. He had no weapons, and few ’raths desire human wealth enough to give over to thievery. So why did he get so close to your house, huh?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

  “What did you offer the boy that prompted him to pass through your land? Food? Shelter?”

  “He was using that enchanted stone as a lantern. I thought he was a wicker.”

  “You’ve said that. Now tell me the truth.”

  “What’s the point?” Wilbur shouted. “You’re just gonna kill me anyway.”

  “That boy isn’t even worth the truth?”

  “Wasn’t worth anything, you bastard of a whore.” He spat on the ground. “Isa didn’t come back with a pair of ears, did he?”

  Evaline gasped, and very nearly pulled the trigger right then and there.

  THE FIRES WERE lit, like they’d known a body was showing up today. Evaline pulled the wagon deep into the commonage, and a crowd gathered every step of the way. Sharath ladies and men walked alongside the wagon, weeping and placing flowers around the tarpaulin-covered body. Near the sage’s home, the bark and branches of the trees were warped into curving fractal patterns by their use of the arcane. The crowd began to sing a subdued melody.

  The sage did not have much to say while the body was taken to be cleaned. She nodded at Evaline and said “Thank you” in a tone that sounded genuine, but tired.

  Evaline waited patiently. She unsaddled her horse and brushed it down while it drank thirstily from a water trough. Then she took a seat on a bench beneath an elm and pulled the empty casings from her revolver. If she’d been at all concerned for her safety, she would’ve reloaded at some point. She wondered why she hadn’t.

  With the gun loaded, she ended up falling asleep on the bench, and dreamed of a barley field aflame until the sage woke her with a gentle touch on the shoulder.

  “Thank you for waiting,” said the sage. “That was very polite of you.”

  Evaline waved her off. “Not a problem.”

  The sage smiled warmly. “I can’t imagine respecting our rituals was a stipulation of your contract,” she said, “so I must reiterate my thanks.”

  “Respect shouldn’t be that hard to come by.”

  “Agreed,” the Sharath remarked sadly. She took a seat next to Evaline, tucking her hair behind pointed ears. “Can you tell me what you were dreaming about just now?”

  Evaline snickered. “I’ve heard some of you were diviners.” She pulled a wrinkled cigarette from her duster pocket and tried to strike a match. Her hands were unsteady. “I don’t know if I like people knowing what I’m thinking.”

  The sage pointed to the cigarette. “May I?” Receiving a confused nod, she pinched the tip of the cigarette between her fingers. The paper smoldered at her touch, and the smell of old tobacco filled the space between them.

  Evaline exhaled smoke through her nose. “Thanks.”

  The sage grinned. “I can’t see what’s in your mind, Evaline. Just the steam coming off a kettle, so to speak.”

  “Oh.”

  “Will you tell me your dream?”

  “I, ah…” Evaline took a long drag off her cigarette, spat out a flake of tobacco. “Just not very happy about how that young boy died.”

  “Yes.” The sage clasped her hands together. “He did not depart well. And without his nel’shar, he will wander.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Honor the memories of the dead. Cherished thoughts are a beacon for the wanderers, and if they know where they have been loved, they will know where they are going.” She peered up through the elm’s branches. “That is what I believe, anyway.”

  “I would like to give the boy justice. That’s how I’ll honor him.”

  “That is not necessary. Or wise.”

  “But I know who his killer is.”

  “And if the boy was standing with us right now, he would be telling you the same thing I am telling you now: a life for a life is not justice, it is not balance—it is vengeance.”

  Evaline snorted. “Where I’m from, they’re the same thing.”

  The sage didn’t seem to care for that answer, but she scooted closer to Evaline. “The place where the dead boy wanders, we call it the lonesome dark. He will walk between the shadowed forms of things he once knew, always finding himself just shy of contentment.

  “Such is the road through vengeance, Evaline. The dead will not find satisfaction through more death. Nor will you. It’s a kind of fulfillment that will elude you for all time.”

  “Yeah, well…” Evaline snuffed out the cigarette on the ground
. “Never know until you try.” She stood and produced the letter from Mayor Meeker. “From the mayor of Longrove.”

  The sage didn’t reach for it. “Is it anything of substance?”

  “No.”

  “Then I do not think reading it will be necessary.” She rose and took Evaline by the sleeve. “Before you go, I’d like to know how much you were paid to bring the boy’s body to us.”

  Evaline didn’t see any point in dodging the question. “Fifteen silver.”

  The sage reached into a pocket on her robe and retrieved a coin pouch. She tossed it to Evaline. “You’re a mercenary, yes? In that case, I have a job for you.”

  Evaline looked at the pouch with marked hesitation. She’d never gotten an offer from a Sharath before. “What kind of job?”

  “Thirty silver coins,” the sage said. “To spare a murderer’s life.”

  AFTER EVERYTHING,” EVALINE said, opening the cylinder of her revolver. “After everything you did, the Sharath sage wanted me to spare your life. She put thirty silver in my hand just to let you go about your concerns.”

  Wilbur opened his eyes. “Why…? Well, aren’t you? Aren’t you gonna listen to them?”

  “Thought about it all the way back out here. Thought maybe it was best to just let this slide, you know? Why add to it?”

  “Add to what?”

  She pulled a round from the cylinder—“The lonesome dark.”—and tossed it away into the barley. “That boy doesn’t need company like you.”

  “Then let me go!”

  “I was gonna,” she said through a laugh. “I was gonna drag you out here and stick this gun between your teeth just to put the fear in your eyes. The fear that ’rath boy surely must’ve felt when you were about to kill him. And then I was gonna let you go.”

  She leaned over, stared him down. “But now, come to find out, you sent Isa and those highwaymen to kill me. With the silver I was carrying, plus what you’d make from the ’rath ears and the bracelet, you were gonna do well for one night’s work. I’ll let you off with a warning for that boy, like I promised.”

  Evaline peered at the storm clouds through her revolver’s one empty chamber, then gave the cylinder a good spin and slammed it home. “But this thing between you and me, we’re gonna settle up right now.”

  And then she was upon him, driving a knee into his chest and sticking the barrel of the revolver deep enough into his throat that he gagged. “One shot against five, Wilbur! Those are the odds you gave me!” She pulled back the hammer with a feral grin. “Good luck!”

  Wilbur screamed. Evaline pulled the trigger.

  A hollow click came back at her, and she gasped. Nothing happened.

  Wilbur, seeing he had beaten the odds, started laughing. Even with the barrel of a gun at his throat, he celebrated.

  She pulled the trigger again—spraying blood and chunks of brain and skull across the field. Blood layering upon the blood of the slain Sharath. In the distance, Wilbur’s family cried out.

  Evaline stumbled back, watching Wilbur’s body convulse and spit crimson. It took him far too long to die. She went to stow her weapon but missed the holster the first time. Thunder rolled, and though she quietly pleaded for rain to wash away the scene, it didn’t come.

  She walked a trail through the barley with some haste, leaving the Wilbur farm behind, and felt her way back home through pitch blackness. Someday, she would have to return the coins she was given for the job she had just failed.

  Someday—if she could only find her way back.

  FRIENDSHIP

  Laura Resnick

  THE WATERY WALLS of Kiloran’s palace undulated smoothly around Najdan as he entered his master’s lair. Hidden deep beneath the surface of Lake Kandahar, the waterlord’s dwelling was imposing, luxurious, and maintained by sorcery. If Kiloran chose, he could loosen his control on any of the airy underwater rooms, allowing the icy lake to swallow them up—and drown whoever happened to be there. Entering Kiloran’s home was a matter of trust if you were one of the assassins sworn to his service—and a matter of desperation if you were a supplicant seeking his help.

  Upon finding Kiloran comfortably seated in conversation with a well-dressed young stranger, the assassin crossed his fists in front of his chest and bowed his head in formal greeting.

  “Siran,” said Najdan. Master. “I came as soon as I received your message.”

  “Najdan.” The old waterlord, who was stout, coldly intelligent, and formidable, smiled and gestured for the assassin to join him and his young guest. “Allow me to introduce you to Toren Varilon.”

  Illustration by OKSANA DMITRIENKO

  The title didn’t surprise Najdan. The young man’s expensive attire combined with the arrogance of his attitude, apparent even at first glance, had led Najdan to guess he was one of the toreni—the landed aristocrats of Sileria.

  “I am honored by the introduction, toren,” Najdan said politely.

  The young man looked him over as if he were a Kintish courtesan, then said to Kiloran, sounding pleased, “Oh, this is excellent! He looks exactly the way I imagined an assassin would.”

  Najdan raised one brow and looked at Kiloran, whose face remained impassive as Varilon rose from his seat to walk in a circle around Najdan.

  “The black tunic and leggings, the red woven sash… The unkempt hair of a shallah—he is a shallah, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Kiloran. He caught Najdan’s eye, and the assassin could see that the old waterlord was amused.

  “Of course,” Varilon said with a nod. “He would have to be a shallah. Just look at the scars on his palms—from swearing bloodvows, yes? And that brutish face!” When Najdan gave him a cold glance, the toren fell back a step—then clapped his hands. “Marvelous!”

  The shallaheen, Sileria’s mountain peasants, were the poorest and most numerous of the island nation’s disparate people. Although the assassins of the Honored Society came from all walks of Silerian life, the grinding poverty of the mountains drove many shallaheen, in particular, into this dangerous but lucrative vocation.

  From the day he swore his loyalty in blood to a waterlord, an assassin’s life belonged to his master and to the Honored Society. But since family ties were strong in the mountains, a wise waterlord nonetheless respected those bonds. When ordering Najdan to exact tribute, ensure obedience to the Society’s will, or kill men, all of which the assassin did efficiently and ruthlessly, Kiloran had never required him to do so with his own clan. Then again, Najdan’s clan was small, poor, meek, and submitted readily to the Society’s will in exchange for Kiloran’s favor.

  “You are a magnificent specimen,” the toren said to him. “I couldn’t be more pleased.”

  “I am delighted to please your guest, siran,” Najdan said to his master. “Have you summoned me merely to be admired? Or is there work for me to do?”

  Kiloran’s lips twitched. “Now that you mention it, there is some work.”

  “I need someone killed,” Varilon said baldly.

  “Anyone in particular?” Najdan asked.

  “An Outlooker,” the toren said, clearly intending to make an impression.

  He made one. Najdan looked sharply at Kiloran—and was surprised to see that this was not news to the waterlord. “Siran?”

  Kiloran nodded, his expression serious. “You heard correctly. An Outlooker.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to understand,” the toren said dismissively. “You just need to kill him.”

  Najdan said nothing, awaiting an explanation. Because there must surely be one.

  The Outlookers were the occupying force of Valdania, the conquering mainland empire which had ruled Sileria for two centuries. The Valdani were powerful and greedy, the Outlookers were callous and brutal, and their emperor had outlawed the Honored Society and Silerian water magic. But Dar, the destroyer goddess who dwelled inside the snow-capped volcano of Mount Darshon, had ensured that Her home was not an easy one fo
r foreign conquerors to control. Outlawing something was one thing, but enforcing the law in Sileria’s mountainous terrain was quite another. And so the Honored Society, though heavily inconvenienced by the Valdani, continued to function much as it had for centuries, through successive waves of conquest and foreign rule.

  But it was a delicate balance, one that relied on exercising good judgment and maintaining traditional boundaries. And one of those boundaries was that the Honored Society did not assassinate Valdani.

  The slaying of an Outlooker would motivate the Valdani to work much harder at enforcing their will in the mountains and pursuing their emperor’s goal of destroying the Society.

  “The dry season was short this year,” Kiloran said to Najdan. “And the rains have been good.”

  This seemed a feeble explanation for the extraordinarily foolish act that Kiloran apparently expected him to carry out.

  No matter which mainland power held the coastal cities of Sileria’s lowlands, the Society had always dominated the mountains by controlling Sileria’s water supply. Through their power and magic, the waterlords created thirst and drought among the disobedient and those would who not pay tribute, and their might was enhanced by the practical skills of their assassins. The Society rewarded its loyal and submissive friends with a generous water supply—and by not inflicting terror and violence on them.

  Sileria’s annual dry season was the Society’s most powerful and profitable time. Although always feared and respected, they were less easily able to impose their will in a year like this one, when the rains had come early and were still falling. Currently, almost everyone in Sileria had enough water, whether the waterlords willed it or not.

  Even in a good year, the Society had to resort to other means of exacting tribute after the dry season ended, such as abduction, ransom, and killing. The blood extracted during the rainy season was how the Society continued to exert its authority and influence.

  And in a bad year, as this one was, they must be bold and innovative to ensure their own well-being.