The captain commends us both, but his voice doesn’t have the fire it used to. His voice is tired, like his face. Too many wars, too many not-wars, too much fighting. Getting punchy.
Has it only been five years since the aliens first built that missile base on the moon? Seems longer. What was I doing five years ago, before I got volunteered for this new kind of army? I don’t remember, and somehow it doesn’t seem too important anyway. All that matters is that the aliens are sitting up there, building something big and nasty on the dark side of the moon. Can’t let the people know, they’d just panic. But when we’re ready, we’ll go up there and take them out. And then we’ll go looking for whoever sent them.
Till then, we just sneak in on all the little wars and not-wars, to train ourselves for the Big One. Learning not just how to kill, but how to do it good. A kid is worth two women, a woman is worth two men. That was the captain’s idea. Keep the wars going as long as possible, teach us to fight mean. We’ve got to defend the human race.
You’re doing a fine job, the captain says, not looking at us; keep it up and you’ll get a crack at the aliens, and then we can get back to real life again.
Sure, we say politely, sure.
He mumbles on for a bit, but we aren’t listening. In my mind’s eye, I can see the kid’s face as I splash his guts across the wall. I lick my lips. Wish I had that nice cold beer. Or even my nice lukewarm Coke.
The captain winds down at last, and we salute and leave. He means well, but he isn’t seeing too clearly anymore. Maybe he and his kind never did. The war goes on as usual, only now it’s a three-sided war.
Does it matter? No. Time to get out and kill some more. Feel that rifle bucking in your hands, the ground shake as the bomb explodes, watch their faces as they get it. A kid is worth two women; a woman is worth two men.
Yeah.
Starting here, these are my earliest stories, those that appeared back in the late seventies, early eighties, when I was just starting out. This one was the first thing I wrote to actually appear in print, in a British fanzine, Tangent. I got the idea from watching a news report about insurrection in a foreign land, where the reporter said he couldn’t even be sure how many sides there were in this war. Which started me thinking about governments who might decide to get involved for their own purposes. I was still developing my own voice at this point, but I think the story works.
Manslayer
In the deeps, in his tomb, dreams Manslayer. Around the many layers of eroded stone, cold waters stir sluggishly, but no shivers twitch his bulk. In the icy dark, Manslayer waits patiently for the day he will be called forth to live his task again. Darkness within, darkness without. Manslayer dreams blood. . . .
1.
Brand twisted and withdrew his blade in one easy movement, gracefully sidestepping as his opponent sank to his knees, clutching with desperate hands at the crimson rip in his gut. Blood welled between the fingers and spilled onto the dirty floor. The man toppled forward and was still.
Brand hefted his sword lightly and glanced casually around the tavern at the watching, hostile faces. Satisfied that there were no challenges, he knelt beside the dead man, jerking free the neckcloth to clean his blade. The tavern bedlam resumed around him as he sheathed his sword and then methodically robbed the corpse.
He sank into his chair with a satisfied grunt and tossed a bulging purse onto the table before his companion. She raised a painted eyebrow as a single gold coin rolled free and settled quickly with a faint shimmer. She reached for the purse, and Brand’s dagger was suddenly in his hand. The girl hesitated only slightly, before moving smoothly on to raise her goblet and silently toast Brand. The dagger disappeared.
“You fight well.”
Brand nodded his acceptance of the fact, sipped slowly at his own wine.
“It’s what I do.”
“My master has work for you at the Great Reefs.”
Brand’s curiosity stirred. “I’m no diver. Why me?”
An elegant shrug was his only answer. Brand studied her openly, eyes tracing her supple figure, mouth smiling appreciation. This one hadn’t been slave long; the thick, coarse wool of her tunic contrasted strongly with the obvious breeding of her delicate beauty and poise. She’d lose both quickly, he mused bitterly, under the lash and never-ending work. The depth of his bitterness surprised him, and he stopped it short, gulping down more wine. She was none of his business.
“How much will your master pay me?” he asked softly.
A dull anger stirred behind her eyes, quickly suppressed
“I haven’t yet decided you’re the man I was sent to find.”
Brand shrugged. “You asked for the best bravo in Ithliel; you found him.”
“You’re the only bravo in Ithliel!”
“Thereby proving my point.”
She hesitated, then leaned forward conspiratorially.
“Out beyond the Great Reefs are the richest pearl beds in the Known Kingdoms; my master’s family have been harvesting them for nearly two centuries, and still they stretch on. A newly opened bed has proved the richest of all. But of late . . .” she hesitated, drank from her goblet. “There have been accidents; divers have been lost, never returning to the surface. Others have returned without their minds, lost somewhere in the Deeps.
“The sorcerer my master keeps to protect his divers has been tormented by nightmares that drive him screaming from his rest, and he is close to madness. His only advice has been to hire a man like you, a hero, a man to dive down to the Far Reefs and destroy the evil that lurks there.”
Brand chuckled. “I’m no hero, girl.”
“There’s more.” She reached into a pouch at her waist and handed a small amulet to Brand. He studied it dubiously, turning it over and over in his hands.
“What is it?”
“One of our divers brought it to the surface a month ago.”
Brand studied it more closely. On one side, strange sigils were etched deep into the metal, presumably by acid. On the obverse, a hazy design of some kind of monster. Brand found it vaguely disturbing and quickly handed it back.
“The sorcerer Gerrandes called it the Beast Out of Time.”
Brand shrugged.
“It is an old legend, of a demon that has always been with us, and always will, whose only reason for existence is the death of man. A demon of blood and darkness.”
Brand felt the hackles rising on the back of his neck and stirred uneasily in his seat.
“It’s only a legend, girl, nothing more.”
“Perhaps. My master has been sacrificing to it ever since this was found, but to no avail.”
“Sacrifice? You mean people?”
“Only slaves.”
Brand stirred again. “The task sounds intriguing. How much?”
“You’re still willing to help after all I’ve told you?”
“Maybe. I’m a mercenary; my sword is for hire because that’s my only skill. I’ll fight anything for a price. How much?”
“Three black pearls.”
Brand spilled what was left of his wine. The black pearl was so rare as to be almost literally priceless. The Emperor of the North had one in his crown . . . to be offered three . . .
“When do we start?”
She smiled, revealing a single gold-capped incisor, and rose gracefully to her feet. Brand pushed back his chair and took her gently by the arm.
“You haven’t told me your name yet.”
Her eyes hardened. “I am slave; I have no name.”
Brand suddenly twisted her arm back to reveal the raw slaver’s brand on the inside of her wrist, and then held up his own arm to show a twin brand.
“I was once slave,” he said softly, releasing her arm. “I never forgot my name, though I no longer use it.”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes, sullenly r
ubbing her bruised arm.
“Do you have a room here?”
She nodded reluctantly.
“Then should we go there, two slaves together, and share the only pleasure two slaves may?”
She searched his face for a long moment, and then one side of her mouth twitched in what might have been a smile.
“My name is Mareem.”
2.
The icy water lapped at his sides as Brand grimly clung to the side of the rocking boat, panting air back into his raw lungs.
“Three minutes; you’re doing better.”
Mareem handed him a steaming draft and Brand nodded his thanks. Warmth pulsed slowly through him, fighting back the ocean cold.
“How much longer before I can stay down the full seven minutes of a diver?” he asked, more to make conversation than because he really cared. Mareem chuckled.
“Another few months ought to do it.”
Brand uttered a convincing groan, though the drink’s pleasant warmth was welling softly through him.
“Feeling better, hero?”
Brand snorted. “Some hero. Lord Vallar hates me, the Court ignores me, and the sorcerer Gerrandes has the unsettling habit of looking at me, shrugging, and turning quickly away.”
Mareem laughed. “Finished with that goblet? Then drink this.” She took away the empty goblet and handed him a crude wooden cup half filled with an oily blue liquid.
“What is it?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t drink it. Gerrandes said it would help you. Now do as you’re told.”
Brand grinned and gulped it down, lips thinning away from the bitter taste.
“What does it do?”
“Helps you stay underwater indefinitely.”
Brand stared at her.
“Try it.”
He handed back the cup and breathed deeply for long moments, hyperventilating his blood, before ducking under the surface. The light faded slowly away as he sank back to the seabed, urged ever down by the iron weights at his waist. The thick salt stung his eyes, but he had become used to that. With the drink inside him, he no longer felt the cold, though he knew that long exposure to it would kill him as surely as lack of air.
Down he drifted into the murky darkness, till finally his feet scuffed sand. He grew bored waiting for the dull ache in his chest, before realizing that his air was still good. He started to laugh and nearly choked as water filled his mouth. He swallowed quickly and was easy again. He pushed himself toward the surface.
A fish as long as his arm swam up to him and stared curiously with goggle eyes. Brand stared impassively back. A flick of the tail and it was gone. He shrugged and resumed the long upward swim.
Another fish flashed past him, this time without pausing, and then another, and another. He paused in his ascent as fish swarmed past him in ever-increasing numbers. He glared into the murk but could see no reason for the panic.
The light faded and was gone. Blind, he clawed at his eyes and the water was suddenly cold around him. It tasted of blood. . . .
Water spilled into his slack mouth as he floated gently just beneath the surface.
3.
Vallar glared petulantly at Brand, who stood dripping on the polished marble floor.
“So the fish were excited, and you panicked. I see no reason for postponing the dive.”
Wrapped in a thick blanket, Brand gratefully accepted another goblet of wine from the sorcerer Gerrandes. The honeyed wine soothed his raw throat as he glared around the packed Court, taking in the gloomy nobles in their multicolored silks. Heavily armed guardsmen lined the ancient stone walls, their weapons gleaming dully under the flickering oil torches.
The Court ostentatiously ignored Brand, muttering in small groups on the edge of his vision. None dared speak openly against him, but Brand knew well that only their fear of the evil beyond the Reefs kept them in check. Once that was finished, he would do well to shield his back from daggers and his cup from poison.
Nothing scares a slaver more than an ex-slave.
Brand grinned wolfishly and tipped his goblet in a sardonic toast.
“But, my lord,” Gerrandes protested, “Both the bravo and I have now shared a deathly dream of blood and darkness; surely this proves there must be Something out beyond the Far Reefs. . . .”
“If there is, he’s being paid more than enough to kill it.” Lord Vallar’s voice was testy, despite the soothing ministrations of his body slaves, who plied him with wine, fed him sweetmeats, and massaged his neck and shoulders. “Every day, our divers bring back fewer pearls. This must be stopped ere we are ruined.” Noble hands flapped in a petulant gesture, momentarily upsetting his slaves, one of whom wasn’t quick enough in dodging the waving hands. There was a solid sounding thump, though the slave hardly swayed, being used to the more painful disciplines of the overseers. Vallar let out a muffled scream and waved his bruised hand wildly before him.
“Guards! Guards! Take this slave away and kill it! No, kill it here, now, were we can see it done!”
The slave’s face whitened as two burly guardsmen took him by the shoulders and forcibly knelt him before Vallar’s throne. One raised a sword on high and then suddenly collapsed in a heap, to be joined shortly by his groaning companion.
Brand grinned, and his dagger disappeared again. Vallar’s mouth flapped silently open and shut, reminding Brand irresistibly of the fish that stared at him just before the panic.
“By what right . . .”
Brand shut him up by the simple expedient of grabbing a handful of loose robes and shaking Vallar violently.
“I was once slave, Vallar. My last master was somewhat like you. He’s dead now, which is why I’m no longer slave.”
He dropped Vallar and stalked back to Gerrandes, who quickly offered him a freshly filled goblet of wine.
“It . . . it is obvious to us that you are still suffering from the effects of your narrow escape this morning, and we will therefore overlook this . . . this . . .” Vallar stumbled to a halt under Brand’s sardonic gaze.
“Most kind of you, my lord,” said Gerrandes, bowing low. Brand grinned.
Vallar gestured for four slaves to remove the dead guardsmen, and the reprieved slave hastily followed them out, not daring to do more than bob a quick nod of thanks to Brand. Vallar settled himself comfortably on his throne, and the remaining body slaves took up their soothing ministrations again.
Brand emptied his goblet and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Vallar shuddered fastidiously.
“You, bravo. The dive will take place tomorrow, as arranged.”
“But my lord, he was nearly killed today, surely . . .”
“Be still, Gerrandes! I won’t hear another word. Oh, if it’ll make you any happier, I’ll sacrifice another slave to quiet It . . . Be still! The audience is ended.”
Vallar, Lord of the Great Reefs, Protector of Ishtrome, rose awkwardly to his feet and hobbled slowly out of his Court. Brand watched him go and Gerrandes shuddered at the dark gleam in the bravo’s eyes. Then Brand shivered and huddled into his blanket, holding out an empty goblet for more wine. Gerrandes’s fingers writhed briefly, and the goblet was full again. Brand blinked and sipped suspiciously, before smiling approval.
“My thanks. Tell me, Gerrandes, how ancient is that old goat anyway? With a prize as rich as the pearl beds I’m surprised one of his sons hasn’t slid his throat long ago.”
The sorcerer laughed tiredly. “Only he knows the exact locations of the master beds, mapped by his grandsire almost two centuries ago; as long as they stay a secret in his head, he’s safe and he knows it.”
“But what about the divers?”
“Dumb, all of them. Vallar cut their tongues out. It’s an old family tradition.”
“What was that about a slave sacrifice?” Brand’s tone was casual,
but the darkness was back in his eyes.
“Vallar has been sacrificing a young girl slave every day for the past two months, trying to appease whatever waits beyond the Reefs. It’s done no good that I can see; if anything, our troubles are worse than before.”
Brand shrugged. “They’re only slaves.”
“Exactly.” Gerrandes knew better than to refer to Brand’s earlier defense of Vallar’s body slave. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He bustled out. Brand nodded, and stood brooding for a moment while the Court pointedly ignored him. Then he slowly made his way back to his pokey little room in the draft East Wing; Vallar wasn’t all the host he might have been.
He sank wearily onto the one good chair and clutched his blanket around him. The bed looked warm and inviting, but he was too tired to make the effort of getting into it.
“You look tired.”
Brand started as a pile of bedclothes resolved itself into a girl under the sheets. He grinned, and the dagger in his hand disappeared.
“Mareem, how did you get in here?”
“Gerrandes arranged it.”
Brand laughed and levered himself out of his chair. He threw aside his blanket and climbed quickly under the sheets. They lay side by side for a while, neither moving.
“The dive is tomorrow, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“It’ll be dangerous.”
“That’s what I’m paid for.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“Of course. But three black pearls . . . I’d lead an army into Hell for that.”
Mareem stirred beside him. “Are you really tired?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“But not that tired.”
4.
Brand sank slowly into the murky dark, pulled steadily down by the leather thong around his ankle, from which hung the lead ingot the divers used to jelp them reach the Very Deeps beyond the Reefs. No normal man could survive for long in the Deeps, and even Gerrandes’s help was limited. The sword at his side was a comforting weight, and his left hand rested on the pommel.
Tales of the Hidden World Page 16