SNAFU: Unnatural Selection

by Christopher Golden

  The scorpion grasped the shield with both pairs of pincers and tried to wrest it away. Adalric clung to the hand strap, switched back to his sword, and stabbed upward, shouting half in fury and half in terror with each thrust. His weapon jolted against the scorpion’s body. With the shield blocking his vision and dust blurring it, he couldn’t tell if any of his strokes penetrated the creature’s shell.

  A piece of the shield crumbled in the arachnid’s grip, exposing more of Adalric to its attacks. He struck across his body at the pincers that now sought to close on his shoulder. They jerked back, but then the arachnid’s sting whipped down, pierced the shield, and stopped a finger length above his chest. It yanked free and struck again. The repeated blows clattered like hail on a roof and were steadily smashing the armor to pieces.

  Though still fighting as fiercely as before, Adalric braced for the death stroke that was likely imminent. Then pincers and sting lifted away, and, legs skittering around the hole in which he lay, the scorpion changed its facing. Something, probably the sentry rushing to his aid, had distracted it.

  Adalric gathered himself to take advantage, and then a smaller but still unnaturally large scorpion, likely the one that had been poisoning the cistern, hopped down by Adalric’s feet and seized one of his ankles in its claws. The pressure hurt. If not for the reinforced leather of his boot, it would surely have cut flesh and broken bone.

  Adalric drew up his other foot and stamped. His heel slammed home just above the gnashing mouthparts and in the center of the four sets of black little eyes. Shell crunched, and though even in death, the creature still gripped him, the pressure abated.

  He’d have to settle for that. He scrambled to his knees and thrust his sword at the remaining arachnid’s underside. The blade drove into the seam between two pieces of shell. The scorpion froze for an instant, then scuttled backward away from the pit, nearly jerking the hilt from his hand.

  He hoped he’d hurt the creature badly. Grinning, he scrambled out of the burrow before the scorpion could straddle it anew, and his momentary elation turned to rage. A decapitated body sprawled on the ground, gore pooled around the stump of the neck, while the scorpion held the severed head in one set of claws. The sentry had indeed succeeded in saving his captain’s life, but at the cost of his own.

  Adalric realized the bugle was blaring. The remaining sentry was sounding it. Responding to the call, Tafurs charged out of the keep, then faltered when they beheld the scene before them.

  “It’s wounded!” Adalric bellowed. “Flank it and kill it!” He ran at the scorpion, partly to encourage them, partly because he hated it. His strides shook the carcass of the smaller arachnid loose from his ankle.

  The scorpion dropped the sentry’s head. Its pincers snatched and, not trusting the scant remains of his shield to block the attack, Adalric dodged. The claws clacked shut on empty air, and he cut at the place where they swelled from the limb behind them. The sword didn’t shear them off entirely, but when he drew it back, they dangled uselessly.

  A moment later, Faramund lunged, chopped with his battle-axe, and maimed one of the scorpion’s legs. Another man rammed a spear into its side.

  We’re killing it, Adalric thought. Then something clanked on his helmet and knocked it askew. It wasn’t the scorpion. Its sting and remaining set of claws were busy assailing other foes. He cast about; arrows were whistling down from overhead.

  The Turkish bowmen could arc shafts over the fortress walls. But how did they know to loose at this particular time and at this particular section of the courtyard?

  Only newly risen from his sickbed, Pierre gasped as an arrow pierced into his shoulder. Other men cried out in consternation.

  “The Turks are shooting blind!” Adalric shouted! “We’ll be all right, but we have to kill the scorpion!” He cut at the head and hacked off one of the mouthparts. An instant later, an arrow plunged down and punctured one of the rearmost eyes. The vermin flailed its claws.

  “Kill it!” Faramund roared. He struck a second blow with his axe.

  Heartened, other Tafurs resumed attacking, and after a few moments, the scorpion fell. The segmented tail was the last part to stop moving, flipping back and forth in diminishing arcs.

  “Now get under cover!” Adalric cried.

  Once inside the keep, he checked on everyone’s condition. Fearsome though it had been, the huge scorpion had only killed the sentry, while the shower of arrows had only found Pierre, who appeared likely to recover.

  “We were lucky,” Faramund said.

  Perhaps so. But Adalric didn’t feel lucky, and he wondered just how enormous the next freakish scorpion would be.

  * * *

  Ibrahim stared at nothing, presumably looking through the eyes of one of the vermin in the fortress. Zeki wondered if a man could simply walk up to the sorcerer and kill him while he was in his trance.

  Then he glimpsed a tiny scorpion crawling on Ibrahim’s foot. Zeki suspected it was playing watchdog. That didn’t mean it could read a man’s thoughts, but he still felt a ridiculous impulse to somehow convey to it that he’d merely been speculating and didn’t intend its master any harm. Then the sorcerer turned in his direction.

  “How did we do?” Zeki asked.

  “Not as well as I expected,” Ibrahim replied. “We got some venom into the cistern, but the scorpions only killed a single Frank. The archers hit another, but in all likelihood, not fatally.”

  “That’s not good enough! Especially when we’re running short of arrows.”

  “I promise you, Captain, in the end, it will all work out. If we simply continue applying pressure, the enemy will inevitably break.”

  “Go on, then. Work more magic.”

  “Tomorrow night. After I renew my power.”

  Zeki frowned. “We’re out of prisoners.”

  Ibrahim waved at the street behind them. “Walk with me, young sir. There’s no need for simple soldiers to overhear deliberations that might distress them.”

  “Keep watch,” Zeki told one of the sergeants. Then, with a pang of trepidation, he followed Ibrahim into the dark.

  “Like every village,” the wanderer said, “this one surely has one or two troublemakers as well as old, sick people who live in constant misery. If they fly off to Paradise as martyrs, won’t everyone be better off?”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “You and your men need not take an active part. I can gather the harvest myself.”

  “That’s not the issue! You’re talking about slaughtering our own people!”

  “Only a handful, and as you and I have already agreed, in war a soldier must occasionally commit a small wrong to achieve a greater good.”

  Zeki hesitated. “Even if that were true, how can you be sure the new deaths would give you enough power?”

  The hairs around Ibrahim’s mouth stirred. “To explain,” he said, “I must take you deeper into my confidence than I originally intended or than may be comfortable for you to hear. But if you insist?”

  “Yes.”

  “As you wish, then. You likely assumed I’m simply taking the lives I reap and burning them like wood in a fire. But the truth is more complicated. The lives are offerings to something strong and old – think of it as a jinn if you like – and as I continue ingratiating myself, it grows increasingly generous in its turn. Once it fully accepts me as its imam… excuse me, vizier, cleaning out your fortress will be child’s play. Why, together, you and I will raise the siege of Antioch.”

  “You sound like a blasphemer and mad as well.”

  “Because I believe the Old One would favor me to that extent? You doubt because you haven’t seen the signs.” Ibrahim brushed his mustache and beard to the sides of his face to reveal the wet, protruding mouthparts twitching beneath.

  Zeki cried out and snatched for the hilt of his scimitar. Then something pinched his calf. He looked down, and a black scorpion, long and skinny like a needle, scuttled up his leg.

  “Please do
n’t slap at it,” Ibrahim said. “Magic has increased the virulence of its venom twentyfold.”

  Heeding the warning, Zeki simply stood and trembled. Even when the scorpion writhed inside his clothing.

  “It won’t hurt you,” Ibrahim said, “as long as you don’t attempt to betray our holy cause. So I implore you to forbear. Let me win us our victory, save you from disgrace, and make you the hero you yearn to be.”

  * * *

  Adalric surveyed the men assembled before him in the hall. Sleep, a meal, and daylight had steadied them, but fear still lurked in many a haggard face and perhaps even the stink of their unwashed bodies.

  “We now know,” Adalric began, “that our situation is more desperate than we first supposed. The Turks are using witchcraft against us. We have to decide what to do about it.”

  “Keep a guard on the cistern,” Faramund said. “The larder, too. Kill the giant scorpions whenever they turn up.”

  “That’s one option,” Adalric said. “But for all we know, the water supply is already unsafe. Even if it isn’t, it seems likely the sorcerer, whoever he is, will work magic against us night after night, with the curses growling steadily stronger and the scorpions ever huger. I doubt we could hold out for long.”

  “We might not have to,” Faramund said. “Bohemond’s men could show up to raise the siege tomorrow.”

  “Because of the love the prince bears for King Tafur’s followers?”

  Faramund snorted. “Fair enough. There’s not much chance of it, is there? But do we have another choice?”

  Stefan pushed to the fore of the assembly. “Maybe,” he said, “it’s time to think about surrender.”

  Some of his fellow Germans snarled, “Fuck that!” and “Coward!” But only some. A moment later, after the suggestion was translated for the Frenchmen’s benefit, perhaps half expressed similar sentiments in their own language.

  Stefan bore his comrades’ scorn without flinching. “I don’t like the notion, either,” he said, “but how long can ordinary men last against witchcraft?”

  “The warlock works his magic at night,” Adalric said. “That’s when the scorpions grow and do his bidding. If we make a move before sunset, he may not be able to harm us.”

  Stefan sneered. “‘May not.’ That’s not reassuring coming from someone who’s been wrong about everything up to now. You said we’d raid the village and get away before the patrol returned. We didn’t. You claimed we’d be safe in the fort. We aren’t. When the first big scorpion appeared, you told us it was a natural creature. Now you admit you were mistaken about that, too.”

  “I do admit it,” Adalric said. “Since we came here, I’ve been wrong more than once. In my defense, I can only say that in war, nothing is certain, and that I don’t see how anyone could have predicted the Turks would use witchcraft against us. They never did before, even at the massacre outside Civetot.”

  He took a breath. “But it doesn’t matter if I’m shrewd or stupid. It matters that we came on this journey vowing to do the work of God. We assumed that meant killing the Turks who prey on pilgrims bound for Jerusalem, but we’ve found a greater evil even than that. We’ve come face to face with Satan himself. We can’t surrender to him. We have to defy him with our last breath.”

  Faramund smiled a crooked smile. “Yes,” he said, “if only because, if we serve ourselves up to a devil worshipper, he’s likely to do even worse than make us renounce Jesus and slice off our foreskins. Better to fall in battle than be tortured to death on Hell’s altar.”

  The Tafurs muttered back and forth. Then they drew themselves up straighter, and one of the Frenchmen called, “We’re with you, Sir Knight!” Either Adalric’s words had swayed his followers or their innate grit and faith were buttressing their resolve.

  Stefan grimaced. “So be it, then. But if we won’t surrender and can’t stay in the fort, what do we do?”

  “The only thing left,” Adalric said. “Throw open the gate and try to break through the Turks. Some of us will die, but with God’s help, some may survive to carry warning of the warlock back to Bohemond.”

  Some in this instance meaning one or two, and only if God was finally inclined to provide His ragtag soldiers with a miracle.

  * * *

  The Turkish soldiers surrounded the fortress in groups of three or four wherever cover could be found. Though it was unlikely an infidel archer shooting from the battlements could hit a vulnerable foeman at this distance, it was nonetheless prudent to deny them the opportunity.

  Zeki prowled from one position to the next inspecting the arrangements. He was sure the sergeants checked periodically to correct any deficiencies and did so with a keener eye than his own. But he wanted a distraction from the creature nestled between his shoulder blades.

  He suspected from the occasional twinges and constant itching that the scorpion had hooked tiny claws at the end of its legs into his skin. Perhaps his back was bleeding, but if so, the rectangular iron plates of his lamellar armor, the padding underneath, and the tunic under that would hide the blood, and anyway, no one could help him even if it were visible.

  He just had to endure the discomfort and, worse, his gnawing dread of the creature’s sting as best he could. If he could only bear up, all would be well. The Franks would surrender or perish, Ibrahim would relieve him of his hideous minder, and in due course the world would hail him as a hero.

  Except, he thought as entered another house that afforded a view of the stronghold, it wasn’t that simple.

  Ibrahim stood revealed as a monster in service to a greater monster. How, then, could Zeki believe anything he said about his intentions regarding the war in general or his unwilling collaborator’s ultimate fate in particular?

  He couldn’t, and even were it otherwise, how could he allow the sorcerer to murder innocent people to achieve his ends? It was his duty to protect them!

  If he didn’t at least try, then what would it matter what his superiors or even his own family thought of him? Forever after, he’d know he truly was the incompetent weakling he’d always feared being, a cringing dupe who could be controlled by vermin riding him like a horse.

  “Captain?” Murat asked.

  Startled, Zeki jumped. “Yes?”

  “You walked in,” the burly, black-bearded sergeant said, “and then you didn’t say anything. Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Zeki replied, “I was just thinking. What’s your appraisal of our situation?”

  “Well,” Murat said, “nothing has changed since last night when we loosed those volleys of arrows. Honestly, sir, I advise against any more blind shooting whatever your friend the scholar recommends. We don’t have enough—“

  Without warning – or at least he prayed the scorpion didn’t sense his intent – Zeki threw himself backward and slammed his shoulders into the wall.

  An instant later, he felt a stab. The scorpion was still alive. The padding under his armor had protected it.

  He pounded it again, and it responded with more stings. Zeki was surely a dead man now. All that remained to him was to make sure his killer didn’t survive, either.

  He bashed it, and it scuttled onto the top of his shoulder. Apparently the repeated impacts had alarmed it at last. It scraped the side of his neck as its pincers and head emerged from under his layers of armor and garment.

  Screaming, he grabbed it, ripped it all the way out, and dashed it to the floor. Then he stamped on it repeatedly, reducing it to scraps and slime before realizing that Murat and the other soldiers were gaping at him in astonishment.

  “That… was a big one,” the sergeant said.

  “It’s killed me,” Zeki gasped. Then he realized that, although the stings were burning and throbbing, he didn’t feel consciousness slipping away.

  “Let’s take a look,” Murat said. He helped Zeki remove his armor and tunic and then inspected his back. “They’re going to hurt, that’s certain. But they don’t look any worse than other scorpion stings.”
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br />   Zeki surprised himself by laughing. “The son of a dog didn’t really make the venom deadly. He thought me coward enough that the mere threat would paralyze me.”

  “Who, sir? Your so-called sorcerer?”

  “Yes. Ibrahim put the scorpion on me. How much do you understand about him?”

  Murat hesitated. “Again, if I’m to speak honestly, I know you put great stock in him. But some of the men claim to sense evil hanging over the village since he arrived. I just thought he was a lunatic or a fraud.”

  “I wish you had been right,” Zeki said. “You were right in thinking I never should have trusted him. But he truly does command magic, and not for the glory of Allah whatever he claims. If we don’t stop him, he’ll do terrible things with it.”

  The sergeant frowned. “If he is what you say, can we stop him?”

  “I hope so. He mostly casts his spells at night. That suggests he’s weaker during the day. Perhaps we can even catch him sleeping.”

  Murat grunted. “That sounds sensible. Do we arrest or kill him?”

  “Kill.”

  “Yes, sir, and how many men do you judge that will take?” Murat smiled wryly. “We do still have a fort full of infidels to deal with.”

  Zeki’s instinct was to lead his entire force against Ibrahim, but he did need to keep the Franks contained, and if he suggested otherwise, Murat would think he was crazy. He might believe it anyway, but if so, he was willing to humor his poor deluded captain if it meant disposing of a troublemaker whose presence undermined morale.

  “If there are only a few of us,” Zeki said, “we can sneak up on him more easily. Let’s say four of the men, you, and me.”

  “You, sir? You’ve just gotten hurt.”

  “I can stand it. It’s my fault Ibrahim gained a foothold here and my responsibility to deal with him.” He swallowed away an excess of saliva, perhaps another manifestation of the venom in his system. “Help me put my armor back on.”