Brutal Women: The Short Stuff

by Kameron Hurley

  “I am as well,” Nyden said.

  “So I,” Ross and Annil echoed.

  The rest rose up a roar of approval, and at Madden’s say, we went to the hall to discuss the treachery. All but Mallen and Donal.

  By noonday, Dunwan’s sons had fled without a trace. Nyden said they must have conspired to kill their father. I disagreed. We all agreed that the servants had either been hired by a higher personae. Even as we discussed this, thoughts were whirling about in my head faster than I could grasp them. One thing was ominously clear: I had to get my son as far away from Inveress as possible.

  When we gave Madden the title of King of New Skalland that night, having no choice because of the amount of his land holdings and the loss of Prince Mallen, I thought of the witches.

  As Madden knelt to receive the crown, my former companion, my former partner in battle, and I might even go so far as to say my former friend, looked up at me with a hazy sorrow in his eyes, and I knew he was thinking of the witches as well. His Lady watched from the hallway, since Ladies were not allowed into such meetings, and I realized she knew of the witches’ prophesy. I looked over at her. Her eyes were full of fire and greed and intense, almost erotic, pleasure as she watched not Madden, not me, not any of the Thanes, but the crown; a beaten piece of silver embossed with precious flecks of gold and glass that glowed in the lamp and candle light.

  I knew in that instant who had murdered our King, who had twisted my companion’s will and the prophesy of the witches. She stood in the doorway in a nearly transparent swath of crimson linen, dark as blood; dark as her deepest ambitions.

  Days passed. One week, two. I kept Flanin by my side, and Madden kept me by his. Every time I thought to slip away, his Lady was offering me a bit of water, some tea, perhaps? Or a look at the weapon’s room? Flanin went near mad with it all, and disappeared only once. I screamed and beat him so severely afterward that he did not dare do it a second time.

  I found myself a prisoner in the place that I had once thought of as my home, the place my boy was raised. And all the time Ross and Annil were hearing rumors, rumors that Mallen had flown to New Ennland for their King’s support and Donal had joined the New Illand clan in the north. More rumors, rumors of spirits and freak storms, of thunder and lightening appearing out of a cloudless sky more often than usual. Whole clan holds were said to have been swept away by great winds. But nothing, I knew, was so horrible as the atmosphere inside Inveress.

  It wasn’t until three weeks after Madden’s coronation that I received my chance to escape. Autumn had begun to cool into winter, lessening the sun’s bite. Madden decided to hold a banquet in my honor, and told me to go out to Nyden’s hold in Fyfe to escort Nyden’s Lady and son to the celebration.

  I was so elated at the chance to leave the stifling hold that I didn’t notice the deadness of his eyes, or the hunch in his stance. He had not been sleeping well as of late, but I considered it none of my concern, and shrugged off his manner as having to do with his lack of rest.

  “Flanin,” I said, once we were back in our room. “Take nothing more than the clothes on your back and your weapons. We can afford nothing else.”

  We left Inveress that morning, and once out of sight of that dreadful prison, we began to run. Perhaps it was the joy of freedom, or the relief at knowing Inveress and its crazy Lady lay behind me, or that my boy was finally going to be safe. Whatever the reason, I did not think of pursuit or ambush. I did not think.

  We slowed at noon and took refuge in an abandoned car on the High Way. Flanin and I discussed our plight. He voted that we join Mallen and his growing army in New Ennland.

  When darkness came, we were well off the High Way, far from Fyfe or Inveress, and I let myself relax. Flanin stayed at my side.

  Whisper.

  I stopped still at the noise. We stood several yards from a stack of dark, hunkered vehicles, little more than their frames still intact. Flanin motioned in the direction of the vehicles.

  My hand rested on my sword hilt, more out of habit than caution at the moment. I knew I had heard something. But what?

  The noise came from behind me.

  In one quick stroke, I drew my blade and turned to face a man twice my size covered in bits of patched and battered metal. I cried out to warn Flanin, and another figure emerged, rushing at my boy from the heap of cars. A third and a fourth arose. It was too dark to make out any faces, but I knew who had hired them. Even as I felled the first man, a second and third rushed at me from behind. My sword arm was twisted painfully behind me.

  With every muscle in my body, I screamed. I screamed so loud that I hoped the treasonous Madden and his frail Lady heard me, “RUN BOY! MADDEN IS A TRAITOR! A TRAITOR!”

  I felt the blow to the back of my head first, like a heavy hand trying to split open a melon. A sharp object, dagger or wood, I know not which, forced itself into my side. Once, twice, three times. They threw me to the ground and began kicking and punching. I lost count of how many times. The more I moved, the harder they hit me.

  I must have blacked out, because the next moment, I was being dragged by the hair back toward the High Way. One eye was swollen shut, and I could feel blood trickling down my cheeks like warm, sticky tears. Why had they not cut my throat or split open my head? What kind of assassins were they? Poor fellows, most likely. Poor, ignorant townsfolk trying to get out of debt with their king. I didn’t know if I wanted to scream or cry. The decision was made for me. My head bumped into a jagged rock sticking up from the sandy soil, and I faded again.

  I awoke to find myself staring at a variety of insects swarming about my face and arms. I couldn’t move. For a moment, I panicked, and tried to claw at the darkness enclosing me on all sides. No, not all sides. Those were stars up above, weren’t they? Yes, yes! And dirt. By the cataclysm, it was dirt beneath my fingernails! I tried to laugh. Pain. So much pain that I thought perhaps I was baring a second child. Burning, searing pain lanced through my body, up and down my ribs and face and back. And I knew I was going to die. I turned my head toward the stars, trying to ignore the industrious critters burrowing into my flesh and feeding on my blood. I would bleed to death in this ditch as Madden and the Thanes feasted in my honor. I dared not attempt to laugh again, but I wanted to. I found this so humorous. Here I was, in this ditch most likely on the side of the High Way, where I had borne my own boy, and where my mother had borne me. I wondered, did my mother die in a ditch such as this, betrayed by her fellow? Did it matter? I so wanted to laugh. I felt so tired, so deathly tired. Another joke. This was so funny.

  “Mother?”

  The sound of the whispered voice ravaged me anew. No, no, boy, get away!

  “Mother?”

  His face became visible just above me, outlined by the stars. There was a bruise on his cheek, and his lip was swollen, but he looked well. I tried to say something, tried to croak out some sort of explanation, or tell him to leave me here, to let me die.

  “I will not leave you here, mother,” he said.

  His fingers were warm and gentle as he bent to pick me up like I was a frail, ill-bred Lady. As he moved my bruised, battered form, I screeched my painful entrance back into the world of the living. He shushed me quietly.

  I said nothing as my boy wrapped me up in an old tattered tarp and stanched the blood from my wounds with bits of burlap. He carried me down the long, dark High Way to Inveress, the only place we knew as home. The moon hung crimson in the sky, dark and lovely as the blood coating my ribs, head and face.

  It was a long walk to Inveress.

  Madden’s Lady would soon believe in vengeful spirits. She would soon believe in many things.

  Once, There Were Wolves

  This is probably the worst story of mine to ever see print, and also the first fiction story I published. It showed up in The Leading Edge in 1997. It’s probably one of those stories I should try to bury, the way Michael Cunningham disowns Golden States. It has alls the usual clichés – evil magicians, telepa
thic wolves, scourged villages, and angry heroines. But I’ve always found comfort in knowing that other writers have written crap, even if none of it is as crappy as mine. It’s inspiring or something.

  Faylle rubbed the small stone in her pocket. Emptiness crept into her chest. She felt hollow. Vultures circled the sky, and a few of the braver birds settled on the outskirts of the bloody carcass. Thick, savage beaks pecked at fingers, toes, eyes.

  The body would not be found.

  Faylle twisted around, her back to the scavengers. Sun dappled her shoulders, her dirty blond hair. Endless hills of yellow grass lay before her, met the horizon, blue on gold. Scraggly trees twisted up from the long grass, reached for the sky, fell short, and remained huddled down close to the ground as if seeking to return to it.

  She surveyed the trees, and could feel the pack of wolves that lay in wait, their golden coats blending them into the grasses. They lay to the west, beneath an ancient tree, silent and unmoving as stone. Do not shun me because of a promise, she thought, staring into their hiding place. What I do, I do for you. For all of us. I keep my promises.

  Faylle started down into the vast grassland, her bare, callused feet padding soundlessly across the turf. As she passed the second pack of wolves, she felt them stir. Ears twitched, gazes flitted in her direction.

  Where do you go, Wolf Lady? One of them asked. The image burned in her brain.

  She answered, I go to the tower. To make good on a promise.

  Confusion sped through the wolf’s mind at the image of “promise.” I don’t understand, he told her.

  You can’t understand anymore. Finish the kill. Scatter the bones. It is my gift to you.

  It smells bad.

  Faylle recoiled at the scent the wolf projected. She stumbled, nearly fell onto the grass at her feet. She focused on the grassland once more, looked for the faint line that was the main road. You remember the stink, don’t you? she said.

  No answer.

  She snorted, lifted her nose to the wind, tried to clear her nostrils of the stench. I go to the tower, she said. Let me be. Finish the kill.

  It smells like the tower.

  At least you remember that much.

  Faylle stepped forward, and her bare feet met warm, smooth oaken panels. The road. She gazed south, up the plank roadway, and hesitated only briefly as the wolf sent her one last message.

  I speak no more to those who go to the tower, he said. There is death there. And no wolves. We have sense enough to stay away, Wolf Lady. You never had sense.

  She felt him move away, lead his pack toward the remains of the kill.

  Across hot planking she ran, ever southward in the oppressive heat of late afternoon. The sky turned glassy, and sweat beaded across her forehead, her upper lip.

  And she ran on, toward the tower. Grassland swept past. Hours crept by. The hot orange sun sank low, turned the sky into a swath of molten reds and yellows and pale pinks just over her right shoulder. Heat escaped with the sun, and the shadows of evening wrapped Faylle in a cool blanket, dried the sweat on her face, billowed chilly air through her loose brown tunic and trousers. The road widened, and as she came to the crest of a slight hill, she slowed to a walk. Ahead of her, below, in the valley, lay the tower.

  All those she knew, from the beginning, had called it “the tower.” There was never other name. A thick, gray stoned tower, it stood encircled by a dry ditch some twelve feet deep that filled with water when the rains came. Slit windows ran up the tower’s height, providing light to those within, but no view inside to those without.

  From her place on the hilltop, Faylle could see candlelight glowing from one of the lower windows. The tower had defended them until it was the last human dwelling left standing. The unlucky ones had their homes turned into roads. Faylle shuddered, scraped her foot across one of the oaken panels that made up the roadway. Whose house had this come from? Mister Connell? Her mother, Marion? Or the three weaver sisters who had lived so close to here?

  All gone now.

  Faylle made her way down the road and across the stout oak drawbridge. She gripped the heavy iron knocker on the front of the gate.

  Once, twice, thrice, she knocked, and waited.

  A cold wind blew, whipping her hair from her face. She scratched at a bug bite on her elbow, eyes still locked on the iron-wrought door. From inside came the sound of metal on metal - a screeching, squealing sound that hurt her ears. A boom followed, and she stepped back as the small sally port - the smaller gate within the gate - opened to allow her entrance.

  From the sally port, a small, slight, pale face gazed out at her, eyes wide. “He is expecting you?” the small person whispered. Masculine or feminine? Faylle didn’t know.

  “Yes,” Faylle said.

  The small figure waved for her to come in, and she followed, stepped into the musty darkness of the tower. The air stank of closed, confined spaces and thick dust. Faylle stared into the wide, circular room that made up the base of the tower. Lamps burned in sconces along the wall - they used less smoke than torches.

  The small figure who had led her in started forward to the stairs, expected her to follow. Faylle had been in this room many times before, and it still held no decoration, nothing other than the lamps and staircase. She followed the servant to the stairs.

  A new servant; a face she did not know.

  She mounted the dark staircase, followed the servant ever upwards. One, two, three flights she climbed.

  She walked down a dim hallway. Beside her, in the shadows, she could make out the twisted forms of her friends and kinsman. Tortured faces gazed out at her, frozen forever in thick white marble. Lamplight threw shadows across them, made their features change, ripple. When he first summoned her here, so long ago, she had cried out upon seeing the statues, and the shadows skittering along their faces made her believe that they moved there in their marble prisons, writhed and screamed and clawed to be free.

  But such things, she came to realize, were mere fantasy. Her friends did not rest in the statues. Only their bodies. Their souls were somewhere else.

  Faylle came to the end of the hall, and the servant tapped on the door. Once, twice, thrice.

  The servant opened up the thick oaken portal.

  “Wait here,” the servant said, and entered. The door closed.

  Faylle remained outside the door and put her hand in her pocket, caressed the stone that rested there, wrapped tightly in a handkerchief.

  I keep my promises, she thought.

  The door swung open soundlessly. “Enter, enter,” came a voice; soft, deep.

  Faylle obeyed, walked to the entryway and stepped into a halo of bright white light. It took her eyes a moment to get used to the light, and she blinked and squinted, held a hand up to her eyes.

  “Too bright?” he asked. The lamplights sputtered and dimmed.

  Faylle found herself in his study. The door swung shut silently behind her. He stood with his back to her, at one of the small slit windows. Dust crept into her nostrils. She sneezed. The room was small and cramped. Heavy tables stood pushed against the wall, piled high with books and papers and diagrams. In the far corner of the chamber, a twisted contraption of wire and glass lay, accumulating a heavy film of grime. Beneath her bare feet, tiny bits of glass and metal and paper littered the floor. No other doorway was visible, yet the servant was nowhere to be seen. Faylle wondered it he had spirited it away, returned it to its marble prison.

  The man turned away from the window to face her. A shock of thick white hair covered his head, ran down over his shoulders to his waist. Black eyes stared out at her from beneath heavy white brows. His white beard was interlaced with braids decorated in beads and bits of glass. The beard swallowed the other features of his face, all but his nose, which stuck out from the mess of white hair like an eagle’s beak. He stood a head and shoulders taller than she.

  Clutching pale, bony hands in front of him, he regarded her. “I summoned you here for a purpose, Wolf Lady. T
ell me of my sister.”

  Faylle’s eyelids flickered. “I spoke with the wolves.”

  The man’s face remained unmoved. “What care I for the wolves? Tell me of my sister and the package she was to bring. “

  “We spoke of your sister.”

  Silence.

  “They remember nothing now. I’ve tried to talk with them, but they don’t remember who they were,” Faylle said. She reached into her pocket, caressed the stone like a talisman, a ward against evil. “My father doesn’t remember that I am his daughter.”

  The man snorted. “Must we start in with this again? Be thankful that I spared you, Wolf Lady. You used to be pretty until sun and wind and age marred you. I have no use for you now but messenger.

  “Tell me, then, is today the day you join them? Join your family and kinsman as they slaughter and fornicate like wild beasts?” He paused, gazed into Faylle’s eyes. “No? Not today? I thought not. Be useful and tell me of my sister.”

  Faylle felt hurt and anger pounding within her, deep in her chest. Color rose in her cheeks. With fingers that trembled, she withdrew the stone from her pocket, held it out before her. She gently pulled away the dirty white handkerchief that covered it. The stone glowed a faint blue in the dim room, casting the man’s face in deep aqua shadows. His eyes were wide; twin circles of amazement.

  “Give that to me, Faylle.”

  A shiver ran down her spine at the use of her name. He only ever used that name late at night, when he wanted favors of her.

  She flicked a corner of the handkerchief back over the stone, cutting off the blue glow. “I made a promise,” she said. “It is a promise I intend to keep.”

  “Do you know what that -”