by Unknown
Tylas frowned, but glanced over his shoulder. "So?"
"Who is with him?" said Caina. "Just look."
Tylas scowled at Caina, but looked at Sicarion, and his eyes grew wide. "What sort of trickery is this? This is sorcery!" He pushed Caina out before him. "Come with me..."
But this time Caina had anticipated his move. She seized his armored forearm, spun, and yanked the dagger from her belt. The hilt slammed into his jaw, and his head snapped back. Caina surged forward, driving her shoulder into his armored chest, and Tylas lost his balance and fell against the stairs, his helmet clanging against the wall. He moaned once, but did not get up.
Caina raced into the Basilica, the marble smooth and cold against her bare feet. Ark and Sicarion had reached the dais. Ark bowed, while Sicarion gripped his illusionary skirts and did an elaborate curtsy.
"Countess Marianna," boomed the herald, "of House Nereide."
"My Emperor!" said Sicarion in Caina's voice, his words ringing over the crowd. "It is an honor to stand before you and your august guests on this most auspicious day. I have brought a gift that I wish to lay before the princes of the Kyracian people, that friendship may bloom anew between our two nations."
Caina ran faster. She heard someone shout for her to stop, heard armored boots clanking against the floor in pursuit.
"You are generous, Countess," said the Emperor, his voice still strong despite the lines of age and weariness that marked his face. "Present your gift."
Sicarion smiled and lifted his hand to the locket.
And there was no more time. Caina threw herself forward and tackled Sicarion. The breath exploded from his lungs, and they toppled to the floor. Ark drew his broadsword with a shout of alarm, and a score of Imperial Guards converged on them. Caina clawed at Sicarion's face as they fought, trying to wrench the mask away. His fist connected with her cheek, throwing her back, but not before the mask went flying.
Armored hands seized Caina's arms as Sicarion scrambled to his feet, his true appearance revealed, his scarred face twisted with fury. She saw the Guards look at her, at Sicarion, back at her in confusion.
"Kill him!" shouted Caina. "The Magisterium sent this man to kill the Emperor. Ark! Kill him now!"
Sicarion wheeled back, cat-quick, as Ark came at him. Some of the Guards approached, swords drawn. The rest formed a wall before the Emperor and the princes, shields raised and swords ready. Sicarion backed against a pillar, a dagger in one hand, his other reaching to take hold of the locket.
His eyes met Caina's, and he winked at her.
"Ark!" said Caina. "Listen to me, kill him now, kill him..."
Sicarion opened the locket, its hellish light spilling out.
A shuddering gasp went through the crowd. Ark stopped, the blood draining from his face. A woman began to scream, high and shrill and terrified.
And then Halfdan stood before Caina, chest wet with blood, dead eyes filled with accusing fury.
It was only an illusion, only a trick, but still the sorcery sent sorrow and terror pouring into Caina. The Guards holding her arms sagged, moans coming from their throats. Screams erupted through the hall, mingled with cries of grief and desperate appeals for mercy. Ark fell to his knees, sobbing. The Emperor collapsed onto his throne, face white with horror.
Every man and woman in the Praetorian Basilica had just seen their deepest terrors come to life.
Caina wrenched free from the Guards, who made no effort to stop her. Her hand dipped into her sleeve and drew out a throwing knife. Her arm arched back, her eyes fixing upon Sicarion...and again she saw Halfdan's dead eyes staring into her.
"Your fault!" his voice screamed at her, "your fault, your fault my death was your fault, I made you what you are and you let me die..."
Caina stumbled to one knee, sobbing. She flung the knife at Sicarion, but her trembling hand sent it spinning into empty air.
"Still trying to kill me?" shrieked Halfdan, the words throbbing inside her skull. "Traitor and faithless, I curse myself that I ever thought of you as my daughter..."
And she heard Sicarion's voice too, hard and mocking.
"You know, I don't even know what you're seeing," said Sicarion. He stepped before her, dagger dangling from his hand, the locket on his chest ablaze with fiery light. "A dead lover, perhaps? You should see your face!"
Caina growled, and tried to stand, but the sorrow crushed her, and she felt herself sobbing. She glimpsed a noble on his knees, weeping and begging mercy from someone unseen, while an Imperial Guard threw himself upon his sword with a scream.
"You're stronger than the others, aren't you?" Sicarion said. "Strong enough to fight, if not strong enough to overcome. I respect strength. So I'll give you a little reward. You'll get to watch as I kill the Emperor and his Kyracian friends. Assuming the old fool's heart doesn't burst before I get to him." The scarred leather of his face split in a grin. "A hundred thousand men will die screaming because of what I do today...and you'll get to watch it begin."
He turned and walked towards the dais. An Imperial Guard stepped in his path, trying to hold a steady sword. Sicarion reached out, yanked back the Guard's head, and sliced his throat. The body fell with a clatter of armor and a spray of blood.
Caina staggered back to her feet with a scream, pulling another knife from her sleeve. But as she looked at Sicarion, Halfdan's face filled her vision, accusing her, condemning her, and her concentration shattered. She fell besides the slain Guard, weeping, the wails of the terrified nobles and Guards filling her ears. It was no use. Whenever she looked at Sicarion, the mental mirror of his sorcerous amulet ripped her darkest fear from her mind and flung it into her face, and she had not the strength to fight. She saw herself in the dead Guard's polished shield, saw herself weeping like a stricken child...
The shield...
Caina blinked.
Wait.
Sicarion climbed the dais, the dagger waving. Caina seized the shield in both hands and lurched to her feet. She hurried towards the dais, weaving like a drunken woman.
"Sicarion! Look at me. Look at me, damn you! Turn around and look at me!"
Sicarion turned, laughing, and Caina held the gleaming shield up before her face.
"So the fear has broken your mind after all?" said Sicarion, still laughing. "Hiding behind a shield like a child, hoping that I won't see you? So pathetic that..."
His words trailed off. Caina waited, not daring to look over the shield's rim.
Sicarion's voice became a shocked whisper.
"No..."
His voice rose.
The grief and horror vanished from Caina's mind, like a shadow disappearing beneath the noonday son.
"I killed you!" shrieked Sicarion. "I killed you! Don't touch me. Don't touch me!"
And Sicarion began to scream.
Caina risked a look over the rim. Sicarion bent backwards, still screaming, his hands shielding his scarred face from something unseen. Caina wondered what he had seen in the polished shield.
She could wonder later.
Caina sprinted forward, shield held out. Sicarion shook his head, and his expression cleared in alarmed realization a heartbeat too late. Caina slammed the shield into his face with all her strength. Sicarion's head snapped back, blood flying from his mouth. Caina struck again, swinging the shield like a board, and caught Sicarion across the side of the head. The assassin snarled and slashed with his dagger, and Caina jumped back just in time to avoid getting gutted. But he overbalanced, and Caina's foot caught his knee. His leg folded, and Sicarion tumbled down the dais. His shoulder struck Caina as he fell, and her bare feet slipped on the slick marble.
She landed atop Sicarion, and his scrabbling hands closed about her throat. Caina wrenched back, but his iron fingers held her fast. She pawed at her sleeves, trying to pull a knife free, but Sicarion began to shake her. She raked at his face, and her hand closed about something hard and cold, terribly cold.
The locket.
Caina ripped
it free from its chain.
A puzzled expression crossed Sicarion's scarred face. Then his eyes widened. With a shriek he shoved her away, scrambling to his feet.
"Don't touch me!" he said, his voice thick with horror. "Don't touch me or I'll..."
Caina never found out what.
Ark's broadsword swept down and plunged into Sicarion's back. The assassin toppled with a yell, falling before the dais. Ark looked at Caina and blanched in sudden horror. She dropped the amulet, picked up the shield, and brought it hammering down.
The locket shattered. Its hellish light flickered, sputtered, and went out.
"Wait," whispered Sicarion, his voice faint. "Don't kill me. Don't...don't kill me. I'll...I'll..."
"You told me," said Caina, "you told me that the world deserved to die, that all men deserve to die." The fury welled up in her. "I tried to save Halfdan, and the magi murdered him. You were only half right. Only some men deserve to die."
Sicarion's eyes widened. "Wait! Wait..."
And then the Imperial Guards shoved past Caina, roaring their rage, swords raised.
Sicarion died at the foot of the dais, his hundred thousand murders stillborn.
* * * *
"I think it is safe to say, my child," said the Emperor, "that your cover has been blown."
"Of course, your Majesty," said Caina. "Beating a man senseless with a shield in front of a thousand witnesses will do that."
She sat slumped in a couch in the Emperor's private apartments, Ark standing by her shoulder. The Emperor's personal physicians hovered over her, cleaning and bandaging her cuts. She knew how to fight through the pain. But, gods, it still hurt, and the exhaustion had caught up to her.
"Halfdan often spoke to me, of you," said the Emperor, voice quiet. "He always spoke very highly of you." He smiled. "As I would be dead and the Empire plunged into war had you not acted, I can see why."
"Thank you, your Majesty," said Caina. "Halfdan was... Halfdan... was as a father to me. My only wish is to do honor to his memory."
"And you returned in the face of a death mark, no less," said the Emperor. "Well, that must be dealt with. In light of today's events, you shall no longer serve as a spy within my Ghosts."
Caina flinched.
"And as a reward, you shall be elevated to the rank of a Countess of the Imperial Court," said the Emperor. "Unofficially, you shall serve as my adviser." His thin mouth twisted. "The magi aren't done. They will not rest until I am dead and they hold the Empire in slavery and tyranny. The horror we endured today... how many more shall they inflict upon the Empire, if no one stops them? I shall need your cunning mind, my child. Will you accept?"
Caina laughed. "I've spent enough time masquerading as a Countess, so why not become a real one?
"And you," said the Emperor, looking at Ark. "You seem marvelously efficient with that sword, and people keep trying to kill our clever young Countess. Will you serve as her bodyguard?"
"I shall, your Majesty," said Ark. "It will be like old times."
Later Caina walked to her new lodgings in the Imperial Palace, Ark following her.
"No longer a spy," said Ark. "What will you do with yourself?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Caina. "But I'm sure something will come up."
She suspected that advising the Emperor might well involve a great deal of subterfuge. The Magisterium still lurked with their plots and sorcery. Someone would have to ferret out their secrets.
Caina smiled and touched the hard shape hidden beneath her skirt.
Sicarion had planned to use his mask to murder the world, but she would put it to better use.
The Vapors of Crocodile Fen
by Dave Smeds
Alexander Pope said "A little learning is a dangerous thing;" but he didn't specify to whom—and a student may well learn lessons that the instructor never intended to teach.
Sword and sorcery works by Dave Smeds include his novels THE SORCERY WITHIN and THE SCHEMES OF DRAGONS, and shorter pieces in such anthologies as LACE & BLADE and RETURN TO AVALON, as well as eight previous volumes of SWORD & SORCERESS. He writes in many genres, from science fiction to contemporary fantasy to horror to superhero and others, and has been a Nebula Award finalist. He lives in the Napa/Sonoma wine country of California with his wife and children. In addition to being an author, he has been a farmer, graphic artist, and karate instructor.
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I was raised here in the bog. Not many can say that. Few families have chosen to tie their lives to this peat, to these sulphur mists. Would you raise your daughter where crocodiles roam? You have seen for yourself how well the creatures thrive here, where the hotsprings and honeycombed channels cure the river of its snowmelt chill. Their pervasiveness is one of the two things for which this place is famous. The other is the Tale of the Dwarf Rebels.
You have not heard that story? The Duke of the Narrows had defeated all his rivals but one, his younger half-brother, Strawhair. Having barely escaped the battle at Founders Knoll, Strawhair fled to a stilt house deep in the bog. Feverish from wounds, bereft of all but two of his fighting men, Strawhair was undone, but the duke was not satisfied. He tortured Strawhair's vassals, learned of the hiding place, and set out with a contingent of knights to eradicate this last challenger of his claim to the fief.
The duke saw no threat in the marshdwellers. We are not dwarfs, as the legend would have you believe, but most of my folk are short and slight, the better to propel our rafts over masses of lotus and water hyacinth. The welcoming party cowered before the knights' drawn blades. When the duke ordered a group to ferry him and his contingent to Strawhair's refuge, they complied in all apparent meekness. But once they were deep in the swamp, they leaped into the water and rocked the vessels from below until the duke and every one of his warriors fell overboard. Burdened by their armor, the invaders sank into the muck and drowned. It was a trap of Strawhair's design. His first victory among many. Eventually he reigned over the neighboring duchy as well, whereupon he came to be called Thrame Half-King.
Ah. You have heard that name, I see.
My grandfather told me that his grandfather was one of the men who sent the duke tumbling. But nearly every bogdweller will make a similar claim and swear it is the truth, no matter that the ambushers were rewarded by Strawhair with good farmland and fine houses. Which is another way of saying, they did not linger here among their kin, siring their babies by the glimmer of witchfire upon muskrat dames like my mother. There has only ever been one noble estate here, and it did not originate from Strawhair's grant. It was founded by Lithra, Countess of Orchid Mire.
Lithra had not been born into the nobility, but she was a sorceress of such caliber that many rewards came her way, including this property and its appurtenances. You might say that I was part of the latter. I was ten years old when I was indentured to her as a potion wench.
For eight years I assisted the countess in making her concoctions. She taught me much during that span. Many rich and influential folk craved her services. She needed to accommodate at least some of them lest she give up the trade of wealth and favors she had come to enjoy, but she had wearied of collecting ingredients, extracting their essences, then mixing and measuring everything just so. She would leave the dull parts to me, stepping in when the limits of my skill were reached, or when lesser results might harm her reputation.
Whether her clients wished for a philter of seduction, a salve to cure hairiness, incense to poison a spouse, a tonic to ward off plague, she could usually accommodate them. Yet many left disappointed. They wanted what she had—enduring youth. She had been born when Strawhair still reigned, and yet she appeared no older than twenty.
"That drink requires ingredients that no longer exist," she would tell them. No matter how high the bribe she was offered, her answer was the same.
What she said was the truth, as far as it went. The ingredients did not exist. What she did not say, not even to me until she had to, was that on a given day and in a given
place, they would.
* * * *
My first hint that something was looming occurred as I was reading aloud from Lithra's grimoire deck in her study. The countess was standing by the window. When I reached the bottom of the tablet and looked up, the sunlight caught her face in profile.
Her jowls had slackened. I would not have noticed in dimmer light. The change was slight. As soon as she raised her chin, the looseness vanished. I wondered, had I truly seen it? But then I noticed new moles on her upper shoulder, revealed by the cut of her dress—Lithra loved to display her long, sculpted neck. The moles were small. No more than freckles, really. But they marred what had been, as recently as the previous morning, a swath of unblemished skin.
She turned to me. I quickly restored my gaze to the tablet.
"Why is licorice root included in that potion?" she demanded.
I hesitated. "To mask the taste of the hoar moss?"
She clucked her tongue. "That's not even a good guess. Nothing masks the taste of hoar moss."
I winced.
"There is no licorice root in that potion," she scolded. "Not if you want it to work."
I looked again at the line of text. It said licorice root. But I should have known better.
Lithra strode to the sand table and raked it smooth, erasing the previous lesson. "When you know the true ingredient, write it fifty times."
"Yes, m'lady."
She marched out, leaving me to my punishment. I sat at the sand table and began to contemplate what rune I would etch.
It was a familiar place to be. Even after years of study, I made errors. I needed to be able to recognize thousands of ingredients—some of which had several names. I needed to know whether to apply them as powders or shavings, hot or cold, for inhaling or for swallowing. Hardest of all, I had to recognize which parts of the instructions in her grimoire were rendered in code. No elixirist writes down his or her lore in such a way that parties uninvited may make free use of it. Fail to recognize the cipher, and a remedy becomes a poison.
I wrote nothing in the sand. I could not concentrate.