Cold horror flooded Tarji. “Mountain poppy.”
Sakavian turned at her outburst. “Chalmarais,” she said. “The Chalmarais hunter—one wore a mountain poppy like an amulet. Like a god-mark.”
“A Kurushane god?” Jere murmured. Tarji shook her head—she didn’t know, how could she know?
“No,” said Sakavian. “The poppies don’t grow on their side of the mountains.”
“‘Needles-stones,’” Tarji said. “You overlook them because they all look the same.”
Naraminta lifted her head suddenly, eyes still glazed. “Sakavian!” she barked. “Beloved!”
Sakavian was at her side. “Here, Bright Ones.”
“The Mikateki boy,” she said. “The child of the heir, got for us on Mikateki stock. He is here. He is not. He is gone from our sight.”
Sakavian turned to the chieftain of the Mikateki, who stood. “We’ve done nothing!” he said. “The boy is with your men.”
“What men?” Sakavian demanded.
The vuhenki who had come to test the Helmiteki boy, the ones who had deemed him imperfect, Tarji remembered, the rumor so senseless, she’d dismissed it out of hand. “The Chalmarais took him,” she said. “They posed as vuhenki, they said they were testing for heirs.” She shook her head. “They know.”
Naraminta’s eyes opened wide, still staring into nothing. “Mountain poppy, hated Chalmar, marching through the precious wheat.”
That sealed it: Kurush had been crushed before they reached the plateau, Vàorem’s fields and the approach to the Speaker’s hold. This wasn’t an echo, but a warning. Chalmar had found a crack in Vàorem’s armor.
“They gain the plateau and you will die,” Naraminta said, her voice a torrent. “They gain the plateau and divide, north and south. They gain the plateau and sixteen split east, the rest—They gain the plateau, and sixteen vanish from your world into ours, they—they gain the plateau, and they empty their waterskins, melting the snow. They gain the plateau, they melt the snow, seven lie down, seven—eighteen—forty-six—” Naraminta began to shake violently.
“Listen!” she roared.
“Their hunters are in the threshold.” Sakavian set a hand on Tarji’s chest. “To this one, your warrior, I beg you,” he said. The warm rush of a spirit—no, two of them—sliding into her chest made Tarji shudder again. He did the same to Jere, to every vuhenki in reach, and left the rest to plead for their own suorinen. This time, the spirits were already fierce and roiling, ready to burst. Tarji drew her sword, put herself between the chieftains and the heir.
“Ask them how to protect the hold!” Sakavian shouted to the row of bone witches. “Every entrance, every gate. How do we shift the odds?” The rattle of knucklebones on threshold flint mirrors began, filling the spaces between Naraminta’s rapidly fracturing prophecy.
Sakavian drew his own flint knife and, pulling up his sleeve, cut a sharp line down his forearm. A curtain of blood flowed down his arm. The air around him shifted so suddenly that Tarji’s ears popped. Poison in the plants made the Speaker listen better. Blood made the suorinen focus, remember, slow.
“We have failed you,” he said. “We have missed the signs. How do we stop them?”
So much blood, so close to Sakavian, and Tarji could have sworn she heard whispery voices, nibbling at her ears. Sakavian flinched, closed his eyes, as the blood splattered against the stone floor. The voices made a cloud of sound, too dense for Tarji to hear much at all.
—falls to nothing—
—Mother-mountain, washed in sunlight, mother-mountain turned to ash—
—archer lonely in the glen—
—and the dead all lay forgotten—
—blood of enemies on our threshold—
—she that speaks for us is silent—
—she that speaks for us in rage—
—lightning-lava comes the storm—
—all our best beloved ended—
—falls to nothing—
—she-bear, night owl, raven queen—
“To save Vàorem,” Sakavian said, “the blood must flee.” His head bobbed—Tarji looked down. Still bleeding, too deep a cut. “Tarji Hellonar, you’ll be the mother of my children.” He turned to her, faintly gray. “Tarji Hellonar, you’ll die if you don’t move.”
The suorinen surged in her, trying to force their way into her bones and muscles and mind.
“Jere!” she shouted, diving forward to catch the heir as he fell. “We have to get him away.” She yanked off Sakavian’s fine wool cape and bound it tightly around the bleeding arm, swift as she could. The chieftains were in turmoil, shouting, screaming. The vuhenki protecting Naraminta arrayed themselves around her, threshold flint swords ready.
Tarji belted on her own blade and scooped Sakavian up. She’d made it no more than ten steps toward the hallway when the wall came down, crushing half the chieftains and burying the spot where she’d stood.
A creature pulled itself out of an amber rift, higher even that the great hall’s roof—not a single suori, but a collection of them, merged into something greater, something more monstrous. Merged because the Chalmarais hunter on the beast’s neck made it so.
Tarji glimpsed a cloud tiger’s curving fangs, the hard scales and flared eyes of a larch viper, the powerful body of a bear, burning through its seams with the core of the mountain, hot and bright. The Chalmarais surveyed his creation’s—his slave’s—havoc dispassionately. As if what he was doing wasn’t abhorrent. The suorinen in her raged, their fury rattling her ears with the sense of screaming. She held them back.
More Chalmarais hunters ripped their way into the great hall. With one last look back at Naraminta, still in the grip of the suorinen, Tarji ran after Jere, still carrying Sakavian.
“Have to…flee with the blood,” he said sluggishly.
“Shush,” Tarji told him. “We heard you.”
Where could they run? Somewhere near, somewhere hidden. Somewhere where Sakavian could recover enough to coax a better answer from the suorinen. Even when Kurush had come, the suorinen had known the way to destroy the invaders, to protect Vàorem. They always knew.
“They know,” Sakavian said, and it took Tarji a moment to realize he didn’t mean the spirits. “They…that’s why the boy. They learned how to…how to confuse the suorinen.”
Tarji bit her tongue, braced for the spirits’ anger, but whether the circumstances were too dire, or Sakavian was right to doubt them, they didn’t burst free.
“They keep changing,” he said, and he meant the Chalmarais now. “They know better than to act predictably.”
They’d escaped the hold, making for the stables when another split opened right in front of them, another hunter, another spirit mount that slammed into Tarji and the heir, knocking her off her feet. Sakavian’s bulk crushed the wind from her. His face crashed against the stone when she wasn’t able to catch him.
This one was smaller—an elk’s antlers, a spring-rat’s heels, a cloud-tiger’s claws. This close, Tarji could see madness in its eyes. A lump rose in her throat.
Jere glanced at her. She nodded once, pulling Sakavian aside as gently as she could. There was nothing for it, the spirit mount might not want to but—
—It startles when the suorinen in Tarji unfold, the first favoring a yak, a bull in the spring, all ire and vigilance, that seeps into her muscles and twines around her bones. The second expands, tingling over her skin—cold and crystals, a spirit of the ice and snow, the freezing heart of winter, to numb her, make her strong and still. Together, they make Tarji a weapon, and the spirit mount knows it.
Jere moves swiftly, sharply, aiming for the Chalmarais hunter, but the wizard drives the spirits to shield him first, kill them second. Claws catch Jere’s sword arm, toss him aside—he rolls, nimble as a snow monkey.
Tarji draws her own threshold flint sword, the stones that line its edge glinting in the sunlight, and she’s angry and she’s numb—how dare the sun shine while the world is ending!—b
ut she knows what must be done.
The spirit mount isn’t whole, isn’t airy—when it means to hit Jere, it does, when the Chalmarais darts beyond it, he passes through its flank. A normal weapon cannot harm the suorinen, even forced into the physical realm like these.
But threshold flint is something else, and this is the last responsibility of the vuhenki.
The snow spirit cloaks her, closing tight over her heart, over the other spirit as they blend and blur into something new, force and ice, cold and hot muscle. Tarji throws the weight of her body, the weight of her sword into the beast’s broad shoulder, knocking it away from Jere, giving him room to attack the hunter. The glossy black blades bite into it like no metal could and the spirit mount screams—
The screaming shocked the suorinen riding Tarji, jolting them from her body, taking the cold’s numbness and the bull yak’s temper. No, she thought, feeling the spirit mount buck against her. No, no, no.
But there was no space for squeamishness. She sliced the sword across the spirit mount’s throat, feeling the fine-edged blades snap off in the wound. They sizzled, as if flint and spirit couldn’t touch, but each destroyed the other.
The mount thrashed like no living creature could, its half-severed head bouncing, everything unnatural about this battle made flesh. The cloud tiger claws raked her, ripped through the leather of her breeches, drawing blood that made no difference to the captured spirits. The spirit mount howled and lashed out again, but as its claws connected, Tarji slammed the broken sword into the back of its neck, hacking the rest of the way through.
Unlike the little marten, the mount hit the stone floor with a heavy, fleshy thud, the suorinen that formed it snatched away, stripped away from Vàorem forever.
“Jere!” she shouted, her voice too loud. The Chalmarais lay dead beyond the mount, chest torn open, his bearded face bloody. She swung around and saw Jere, crouched beside Sakavian, trying to lift him with his own right arm held close to his chest and bleeding. Tarji limped toward them, pushing the pain out of her thoughts. They could get Sakavian on a yak. They could make for the passlands. The Chalmarais would be fools to try and follow.
But Sakavian could barely lift his head. Blood blackened the cloak wound around his arm—still bleeding. Jere looked up at her, eyes fearful. “Can you lift him?”
The roar of more stones crashing, the pained howl of the giant spirit mount that the calm Chalmarais summoner had ridden. Tarji’s heart squeezed as if another suori had invited itself in, hiding from the carnage of this world. “We have to leave him.”
Jere shook his head. “Are you mad? He’s the heir. Maybe the Speaker by now.”
“I know,” Tarji said.
“We swore to protect him!”
“No.” Tarji sank to her knees beside Sakavian. “We’re sworn to protect Vàorem. We’re sworn to protect the blood. He’s not likely to survive that wound, and if he does, he’ll be slow.” Her voice caught, she pressed on. “They’ll be hunting him. All of us. They brought an army to quash the tribes and they know if they want to take Vàorem they need to keep the suorinen from having a Speaker. We have to make sure that there is always a Speaker.” She looked down. Sakavian was watching her with those glittering black eyes, as if she’d made a joke. “They might have one bastard,” she said, her voice breaking. “They can’t have gotten them all.”
Sakavian regarded her a moment with such tenderness that Tarji wished she had the luxury of looking away. “Tarji Hellonar,” he sighed. “Mother of my children after all.”
Without meaning to, she thought of other futures, other possibilities, where his stupid prophecy hadn’t pointed to the end of everything. How strange something so contrary to her nature could seem so sweet, given all the wrong alternatives.
“Speaker,” she said, taking his hand, “I wish you were wrong.” She swallowed. “Should we speed you on your way?”
“No need for that,” Sakavian said. “I’ll speed you.” He grasped for his blade, but it lay on the floor of the great hall. Tarji broke one of the remaining pieces of threshold flint from her sword, cutting her own fingers in the process. He took it in shaking hands and sliced through his other arm, before cutting the bindings loose.
“Give us a gate, my Bright Ones, I beg you,” he sighed as Tarji took his hand. “Give my faithful warriors a path to your next best beloved.”
All around Tarji and Jere the air grew stiflingly thick and dark, though it shimmered with an amber fire that seemed almost alive. Tarji held Sakavian’s hand until it seemed to dissolve in her grasp, until the world slipped away, and she was buoyed unseeing through a frantic river of whispering voices, into a future she had no name for.
TARJI FOUND THE FIRST GIRL—Yrsa Valausiä—buried under a midden in the midst of the still smoking village. She froze, stiff and still as a dead branch when Tarji peeled back the ratty cloak covering her.
“Got her!” Tarji shouted to Jere, lost somewhere in the village. The girl flinched away as Tarji bent down. “Come along,” she said more gently. “Your father sent me.”
“You’re the vuhenki,” the little girl said, dark eyes wide and staring. “They…they…”
“Burnt your village down,” Tarji said. “Good to see the old man had sense enough to hide you. Come along.”
Yrsa didn’t move. “Are they dead?”
Tarji bit her tongue. The girl meant the Aalmeki, some of whom littered the streets, but most of whom would have fled into the forests at the approach of Chalmar. All Tarji could think about was Naraminta, her fellow vuhenki, the court of chieftains and bone witches. Sakavian’s hand slipping from her own. The spirit mount dying on her blade.
“Come along,” she said again, scooping the little girl up. “Now isn’t the time.”
“Why?” Yrsa was shaking from cold, from nerves. Tarji realized the cloak in the midden had probably been the girl’s, but there was no way she was going back for the muddy, stinking thing.
“What’s happening?” Yrsa whispered.
In the threshold, the suorinen screamed and stormed and demanded retribution, a return to order. A new heir. But they hadn’t chosen.
Too much to explain, too close to breaking taboo and the spirits themselves. What was happening was blasphemy and disorder. Tarji was the last person who knew how to explain it.
But you must, she thought.
“Not now,” she told the girl.
Jere met them at the edge of the village, two stolen yaks ready and saddled for a hard ride up to the passlands. He climbed onto his own and gestured for Tarji to hand him Yrsa, but she ignored Jere, climbing onto her own mount and pulling the little girl up with her. She tucked her cloak around the girl, cloud tiger fur and raven feathers. She couldn’t wear it much longer.
“What’s happening?” Yrsa said again.
Tarji paused. “Your father is a good man,” she said. Was, she thought, and wasn’t ready for it. “Better than anyone gives him credit for. Loves you very much. Loves all Vàorem very much. That’s what he’s like.”
“Oh.” Yrsa snuggled into her and Tarji bore it. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“I’m taking you somewhere safe,” Tarji said. “Because we’re going to fix this.”
Chalmar deserved nothing but vengeance, after all.
SNAKESKIN
A MUTANT FILES STORY
WILLIAM C. DIETZ
BOUNTY HUNTER MELODY RAINES LOOKED from her outside mirror to the gas gauge as the rat rod raced across the bone-dry desert. The needle was wobbling above the “E” as the men on dirt bikes tried to catch up with her. Their images grew larger with each passing second. All three of the vehicles produced dusty rooster tails and caught air from time-to-time.
Raines swore as the truck slammed down. She’d spent the three weeks, and the better part of 2,000 nu bucks, following a bank robber named Kathy Striker. A search that culminated in a long-range rifle duel with Raines the winner.
She was loading Striker’s body onto the roof
of her truck when the Mackie brothers appeared. They’d been hunting for Striker too, and weren’t above stealing her body to collect the bounty.
Fortunately, Raines had been able to kill one of the triplets and escape. Now his siblings were after revenge and the bank robber’s body. Raines wanted to consider her options but couldn’t come up with any. A sawed-off shotgun lay on the seat next to Raines—and a Glock 32 was ready in the door cubby. Windows were expensive, so Raines pressed a button, and felt a sudden blast of hot air as they disappeared.
The Mackie brothers were firing at the rat rod’s tires by then, but to no effect, because they could run flat. The one with the mouthful of stainless steel teeth pulled up along the right side of the truck, smiled, and fired a pistol.
Illustration by OKSANA DMITRIENKO
Raines heard a snap as the bullet whipped past her nose. She aimed the shotgun at the man on the motorcycle and pulled both triggers. There was a loud boom as the load of double ought buck blew most of his face away. Raines stood on the brake and the dead man disappeared. Dust billowed as the rat rod skidded to a halt.
The last Mackie flashed past. Raines stomped on the gas. Gravel flew as the off-road tires fought for a purchase. Now their roles were reversed. Raines drew the Glock, stuck it out through the window, and fired left handed. The bullets went wide.
The surviving brother heard the shots, looked back over his shoulder, and tried to turn. His motorcycle’s front tire hit a rock and popped it up off the ground, which caused the bike to flip.
Raines braked to avoid the wreckage, stopped, and got out. The full weight of the motorcycle was resting on Mackie’s legs. “Please!” he begged. “Help me!”
Raines pointed the Glock at him. Brother three had a dog-like snout and a bloody cut on his cheek. She could see one hand, but the other was hidden. “That sounds like a bad idea,” Raines observed. “Because later, after you recover, you’ll come looking for me. It makes sense to settle this now.”
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