Wings of Fire

by Jonathan Strahan

  She watched the spirit finally break in Ysa’s eyes, but it gave her no pleasure. Like she’d told the Blood earlier, it didn’t bring the dead back.

  Reaching down, she pulled Ysa to her feet by the scruff of her leather jacket and propelled her out the door. Ysa staggered against a wall, trying to keep to her feet. The one numbed leg barely held her weight. Berlin never gave her a chance to steady herself. She just kept shoving her along. Down the stairs. Out through the foyer. Onto the street. Down to the train station.

  They heard the distant sound of the Mock Avenue Bell Tower ring the half hour. Midnight was only another thirty minutes away.

  It’ll all be over soon, Berlin thought. Except for one thing. She still had to deal with the spectre of somebody else’s past.

  She still had to deal with Stick.

  ELEVEN

  Midnight came and went.

  Stick lifted his head slowly and gazed across the Museum’s roof. A bat moved in his field of vision, a quick silent swoop, then it was gone. He closed his fingers around the katana’s lacquered wood sheath. His mind moved in the past. He saw a red-eyed rogue dragon and a man clad all in black silk. He watched the blade rise, then come down, as quick and smooth as the bat’s flight. Blood sprayed. The night was suddenly filled with its hot scent.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, Stick rose silently. He thrust the katana into his belt and and left the roof-top at a gliding walk. Down through the Museum he went, one more ghost in a building over-filled with ghosts.

  On the street outside he paused, nostrils widening to take in the still night air. Bordertown held its secrets close to its vest, but unerringly, he turned and drifted down the street, making for the old train station that bordered Dogtown. Behind him, low to the ground, Lubin padded silently in his wake, but he never noticed the ferret.

  He was still moving through the past, trying to reach a point in it before the figure in black silk buried his katana in dragon flesh. He quickened his pace, grinding his teeth as he loped down the silent streets. It was long past time for him to shoulder the responsibilities that he’d once shirked. He wasn’t sure how it had come to be that he could return to the past, that he could give Onisu the freedom now that in another life he hadn’t been able to. All he knew was that this time he wouldn’t fail her. No matter what face she wore. He would do what had to be done.

  The old train station.

  Inside, Bordertown was listening to Ysa Cran’s confession. Out front, dogs and gang members patrolled, each studiously ignoring the other, each aware of the others’ every move. Behind, on the old tracks, a single figure stood. Dressed in black silk, Shoki the Demon Queller waited, katana and wakazashi thrust into his silk obi. Huddled nearby, Manda and Laura waited as well, but without the armed figure’s calm.

  A step sounded and a fourth figure stirred, moving in the shadows that cloaked the back of the train station. It was a bag lady, wreathed in patched layers of clothes, her treasures gathered around her like a clutch of garbage bags standing on a street curb waiting for the garbage collectors that no longer served this part of the city. Her head swiveled slowly, taking in Shoki, the two girls, then she turned to see what they were looking at.

  The darkness almost swallowed him, brown skin, black clothes, dreadlocks and all. He paused, gaze settling on Shoki. When Shoki gave him a brief bow, Stick lifted his hand to the hilt of his katana. There was a sharp click as he unlocked the blade with his thumb, pulling it a half-inch free of the wooden sheath.

  “I’ve come for her,” he said softly. “I’ve got to do it myself this time.”

  Shoki made no move towards his own weapons.

  “She has been long dead,” he said.

  Stick shook his head and began to close the distance between them.

  Manda couldn’t stand it any more. She jumped up from where she was sitting, but Laura hauled her back down. Manda glared at her.

  “If we don’t do something,” she hissed, “one of them’s going to get killed.”

  Laura put an arm around Manda’s shoulders, as much to keep her down as to comfort her. “Right now, the worst thing we could do is get in the way.”

  “But….”

  “I don’t like it anymore that you do, Manda. Believe me.”

  Manda started suddenly as something touched her, then looked down to find Lubin crouched by her feet. She patted her lap and the ferret flowed up on to it, shivering.

  “Yeah,” Manda said softly, stroking Lubin’s fur. “I know just what you’re going through.”

  Stick and Shoki stood with just a few feet between them. Within striking distance.

  “Listen to me,” Shoki said. “The past is gone. If you go on with this, you’ll be crossing the line.”

  Stick blinked. He was still in the past, but pieces of the present were beginning to superimpose themselves on what had been, on what he knew he had to do.

  “Berlin’s clearing her name right now,” Shoki went on, pressing the momentary advantage. “It was all a mistake.”

  Stick shook his head as if to clear it.

  “I’m not here for Berlin,” he said. “I’m here for Onisu. Get out of the way.”

  “I can’t,” Shoki said.

  Nothing gave Stick away. There was no narrowing of the eyes, no shift in his stance. But Shoki knew Stick was moments from drawing his katana. And once drawn, there’d be no turning back—not for either of them. It would be decided in seconds. A duel between masters such as they would be over almost before it began.

  Shoki centered his balance. He closed his mind, allowing the years of practice to rise up and take control. When he finally made his move, it would be fueled by instinct. His body would know the correct move at the correct time before his mind could even begin to consider it.

  He knew a moment’s sadness, but before either of them could move—

  “Stick!”

  Instinctively—and for all the disagreement between them—they flowed into new stances, each facing outwards, protecting the other’s back. Shoki’s eyes widened slightly. What he saw was a circle of dogs. The circle began directly in front of him, then fanned out on either side until the lines left his range of vision. Stick saw the dogs, too. But he also saw the one who had called his name.

  The bag lady had moved from the side of the train station to stand in front of him. Out of the shadows, she was easily recognized—if not by Stick, at least by the others.

  Berlin.

  She had a dark cloak over her shoulders. Her hands reached out from under it, holding a Kabuki mask of a woman’s face. The cheeks and brow were a deathly white, the lips red, the eyes painted with long stylized strokes. Slowly Berlin pulled it on.

  “Onisu,” Stick breathed.

  “Hai,” the masked figure replied. Yes.

  Stick took a step towards her, fingers tightening on the hilt of his katana.

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  The katana whispered against lacquered wood of its sheath. Berlin’s cloak billowed as she moved an instant before the katana was completely clear of the sheath. The sword blurred in the night air to cut deeply into the cloak’s undulating folds. The mask went skittering across the pavement, landing face-up to stare at the sky. Berlin let herself fall, the cloak collapsing around her, covering her completely as she touched the ground.

  After that one stroke, Stick stood as though carved from granite. He stared at the Kabuki mask.

  Sensing the beginning of Stick’s movement, Shoki had begun to turn. When he saw what happened, the aspect of the Demon Queller left him and Koga stood in his place. It was Koga—the man, the Sensei—who plucked the katana from Stick’s nerveless fingers. He noted that the blade was still dry.

  Stick walked slowly over to the Kabuki mask. Kneeling beside it, he picked it up. He stared at it for a long moment, then held it against his chest and bowed his head.

  Manda and Laura rose from where they’d been sitting, Manda clutching
Lubin close to her. All around them the dogs watched silently.

  “Koga,” Laura called. “Berlin. Is she…?”

  But when they looked at where she’d dropped, they saw the cloak move. Folds of cloth fell aside. Berlin flowed to her feet and held the cloak open so that they could see the clean slice where the katana had cut through the fabric.

  “Jesus, I played that close,” Berlin murmured. “Another inch and that hole’d be in me.”

  She let the cloak flutter to the ground at her feet.

  Stick turned at the sound of her voice.

  “Hey, tall, dark and ugly,” she said.

  Stick laid the mask down. “Berlin, I….”

  She shook her head. “You don’t have to say anything. We’ve all been there, at one time or another. Question is, are you okay now?”

  “I’ve been better, but yeah. I’m okay. Thanks.” He turned to where the others were standing. “All of you. I mean that. I was really… someplace else.”

  He rose to his feet as Koga approached, the katana outstretched in his hands. Stick took the blade with a brief bow and returned it to its sheath. For a long moment the two men faced each other, then Stick moved closer and the two men embraced.

  “Been a long time, man,” Stick said.

  “Too long,” Koga replied.

  When they stepped back, Berlin rubbed her hands briskly together. “Well, I won’t say it hasn’t been fun, but I’ve got to run. It’s time I got a new House going—the Diggers were just starting to make a difference, you know?” She gave a sharp whistle and the dogs exploded into motion all around them, heading back to Dogtown. “But I still wish I had the name of the sucker who started all of this. I don’t like having enemies hiding across the Border, never knowing when they’ll strike again.”

  “It’s better than having them inside yourself,” Stick said.

  Berlin nodded soberly. “I guess so.”

  “Do you need any help or anything?” Manda asked her.

  Berlin shot Stick a glance, then she grinned. “I can always use a hand. Best thing you could do is get that band of yours to play a benefit or two—just to get the Diggers on the road again. Do you know ‘World Turned Upside Down’?”

  Manda shook her head.

  “Leon Rosselson wrote it—long time ago now. You guys should learn it. It’s an angry song, but an honest one. Like the blues are sometimes, you know?” Berlin pulled one of her thin cigars out of an inside pocket of her jean jacket. “Anyway, if you can do a benefit….”

  She lit up, ground the wooden match under her heel, and started to walk away, still talking. Manda kept pace at her side, Lubin asleep in her arms. Stick, Koga and Laura took up the rear.

  “That’s Berlin,” Stick said. “She’s always got some scheme on the go.”

  Koga put his arm around Laura. “Good thing,” he said.

  Stick nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Damn good thing.”

  Draco, Draco

  Tanith Lee

  Tanith Lee became a freelance writer in 1975, and has been one ever since. Her first published books were children’s fantasies The Dragon Hoard and Animal Castle. Her first adult fantasy novel, The Birthgrave, was the start of a long association with DAW, which published more than twenty of her works of fantasy, SF, and horror in the 1970s and 1980s. She received the British Fantasy Society’s August Derleth Award in 1980 for Death’s Master, World Fantasy Awards for Best Short Story in 1983 (for “The Gorgon”) and 1984 (for “Elle est Trois (La Mort)”). Enormously prolific, Lee has recently published a trilogy of pirate novels for young adults (Piratica and sequels), a science fiction novel for adults (Mortal Suns), an adult fantasy trilogy (Lionwolf), a young adult fantasy trilogy (Claidi and sequels), and the first of two retrospective short story collections (Tempting the Gods). Upcoming are new books in the Flat Earth series. In 2009 she was made a Grand Master of Horror. Tanith Lee lives with her husband, the writer and artist John Kaiine, on the southeast coast of England.

  You’ll have heard stories, sometimes, of men who have fought and slain dragons. These are all lies. There’s no swordsman living ever killed a dragon, though a few swordsmen dead that tried.

  On the other hand, I once travelled in company with a fellow who got the name of “dragon-slayer”.

  A riddle? No. I’ll tell you.

  I was coming from the North back into the South, to civilisation as you may say, when I saw him, sitting by the roadside. My first feeling was envy, I admit. He was smart and very clean for someone in the wilds, and he had the South all over him, towns and baths and money. He was crazy, too, because there was gold on his wrists and in one ear. But he had a sharp grey sword, an army sword, so maybe he could defend himself. He was also younger than me, and a great deal prettier, but the last isn’t too difficult. I wondered what he’d do when he looked up from his daydream and saw me, tough, dark and sour as a twist of old rope, clopping down on him on my swarthy little horse, ugly as sin, that I love like a daughter.

  Then he did look up and I discovered.

  “Greetings, stranger. Nice day, isn’t it?”

  He stayed relaxed as he said it, and somehow you knew from that he really could look after himself. It wasn’t he thought I was harmless, just that he thought he could handle me if I tried something. Then again, I had my box of stuff alongside. Most people can tell my trade from that, and the aroma of drugs and herbs. My father was with the Romans, in fact he was probably the last Roman of all, one foot on the ship to go home, the rest of him with my mother up against the barnyard wall. She said he was a camp physician and maybe that was so. Some idea of doctoring grew up with me, though nothing great or grand. An itinerant apothecary is welcome almost any-where, and can even turn bandits civil. It’s not a wonder-ful life, but it’s the only one I know.

  I gave the young soldier-dandy that it was a nice day. I added he’d possibly like it better if he hadn’t lost his horse.

  “Yes, a pity about that. You could always sell me yours.”

  “Not your style.”

  He looked at her. I could see he agreed. There was also a momentary idea that he might kill me and take her, so I said, “And she’s well known as mine. It would get you a bad name. I’ve friends round about.”

  He grinned, good-naturedly. His teeth were good, too. What with that, and the hair like barley, and the rest of it—well, he was the kind usually gets what he wants. I was curious as to which army he had hung about with to gain the sword. But since the Eagles flew, there are kingdoms everywhere, chiefs, war-leaders, Roman knights, and every tide brings an invasion up some beach. Under it all, too, you can feel the earth, the actual ground, which had been measured and ruled with fine roads, the land which had been subdued but never tamed, beginning to quicken. Like the shadows that come with the blowing out of a lamp. Ancient things, which are in my blood somewhere, so I recognise them.

  But he was like a new coin that hadn’t got dirty yet, nor learned much, though you could see your face in its shine, and cut yourself on its edge.

  His name was Caiy. Presently we came to an arrange-ment and he mounted up behind me on Negra. They spoke a smatter of Latin where I was born, and I called her that before I knew her, for her darkness. I couldn’t call her for her hideousness, which is her only other visible attribute. The fact is, I wasn’t primed to the country round that way at all. I’d had word, a day or two prior, that there were Saxons in the area I’d been heading for. And so I switched paths and was soon lost. When I came on Caiy, I’d been pleased with the road, which was Roman, hoping it would go somewhere useful. But, about ten miles after Caiy joined me, the road petered out in a forest. My passenger was lost, too. He was going South, no surprise there, but last night his horse had broken loose and bolted, leaving him stranded. It sounded unlikely, but I wasn’t inclined to debate on it. It seemed to me someone might have stolen the horse, and Caiy didn’t care to confess.

  There was no way round the forest, so we went in and the road died. Being summer,
the wolves would be scarce and the bears off in the hills. Nevertheless, the trees had a feel I didn’t take to, sombre and still, with the sound of little streams running through like metal chains, and birds that didn’t sing but made purrings and clinkings. Negra never baulked or complained—if I’d waited to call her, I could have done it for her courage and warm-heartedness—but she couldn’t come to terms with the forest, either.

  “It smells,” said Caiy, who’d been kind enough not to comment on mine, “as if it’s rotting. Or fermenting.”

  I grunted. Of course it did, it was, the fool. But the smell told you other things. The centuries, for one. Here were the shadows that had come back when Rome blew out her lamp and sailed away, and left us in the dark.

  Then Caiy, the idiot, began to sing to show up the birds who wouldn’t. A nice voice, clear and bright. I didn’t tell him to leave off. The shadows already knew we were there.

  When night came down, the black forest closed like a cellar door.

  We made a fire and shared my supper. He’d lost his rations with his mare.

  “Shouldn’t you tether that—your horse,” suggested Caiy, trying not to insult her since he could see we were partial to each other. “My mare was tied, but something scared her and she broke the tether and ran. I wonder what it was,” he mused, staring in the fire.

  About three hours later, we found out.

  I was asleep, and dreaming of one of my wives, up in the far North, and she was nagging at me, trying to start a brawl, which she always did for she was taller than me, and liked me to hit her once in a while so she could feel fragile, feminine and mastered. Just as she emptied the beer jar over my head, I heard a sound up in the sky like a storm that was not a storm. And I knew I wasn’t dreaming any more.

  The sound went over, three or four great claps, and the tops of the forest reeling, and left shuddering. There was a sort of quiver in the air, as if sediment were stirred up in it. There was even an extra smell, dank, yet tingling. When the noise was only a memory, and the bristling hairs began to subside along my body, I opened my eyes.