The Stories: Five Years of Original Fiction on Tor.com

by Various

  For three days she remained on the east steps of Solath Mahnus, decrying all those whom she could think of now only as murderers. When she had to, she fed her babe, keeping a watchful eye on the Emerit guards stationed nearby, one hand still holding tight her sword.

  The first night, she sat upon the cool stone to rest and kept a dark silent vigil with the great crowd. But she did not leave. Would not. There was no going back to the life she had lived. One way or another, something would change here at the steps of Solath Mahnus.

  When the second day broke in the eastern sky, she stood again and started to speak. At times, she recounted memories of her dead children. From the steps, she could see the crowd stretched beyond the courtyard, beyond the Wall of Remembrance. The great concourse beyond the wall, and the nearby streets, stood packed with more citizens yet, and she could hear men calling back to those too far to hear her, relaying her words. She began to grow weary, but the fire of her own anger and the shouts of agreement gave her strength to continue.

  When the second night came, torches were lit, and she imagined that these citizens would return to their homes. They did not. Instead, they again sat, as they had the night before, and together kept a silence. It seemed as if they felt that they must watch with her, that what was happening held import for them all, and so they would not retire to their homes.

  When Layosah stood on the morning of her third day at the steps of Solath Mahnus, she wondered if she would, after all, be able to force those who pontificated in vaulted rooms to listen and understand and act…if she still had the courage to go through with what she’d planned if she could not compel them by words alone. Yes, the blood she promised to spill would be upon their heads, but only if she had enough will to see it through. After two days of calling on her king to hear her, she began to fear she could do neither.

  And if she failed, she felt, the deaths of her five sons, and of her beloved, would have been in vain. More than this, her daughter would inherit Layosah’s fate. Yet for all that, as her third day wore on, speaking to the people and demanding that her sovereign take action, she lost much of her zeal, despair gripping her.

  As dusk settled over the courtyard on the third day, Layosah’s strength was nearly gone. Weary to the bone, she could barely stand. She began to fade, and her eyes threatened to close despite all her efforts. Just as the torches were lit, she caught a glimpse of movement, and forced herself up straight in time to stop the king’s men in their rush to seize her.

  With a surge of anger flooding through her, she gathered her strength and held Audra high, believing that it would be the last time she could do so. Suddenly she felt as if she had lost herself. Who am I? How can I do this? Audra was crying—a sound she heard as though it came from far away. She felt tortured, wounded…mad. And in the next moment, fury overcame her, righteous anger that gave her strength in her conviction and clarity of purpose.

  She glared at the king’s guard, then looked out once more over those keeping vigil with her. The citizens got to their feet as she prepared to speak, her voice now a hoarse rasp.

  “My grandmother raised soldiers. My mother, too. And now I… I stand here on these chiseled steps with a child. My family’s blood is good enough to be spilled for Recityv to protect her from the Quiet, but her king will not do what is needful so that my daughter will not likewise know the pain of war tidings.”

  Layosah began to tremble and teeter. Her strength, even fueled by her anger, was flagging.

  “I lift my child here and call upon King Seachen Baellor one last time to form a council to represent all the people. He must look beyond his borders, mend broken alliances, call for truces to old feuds. Shame any who deny! All must come. All must be convinced to stand with us!”

  Her arms were failing fast. She locked her elbows to keep Audra held aloft. Sweat beaded on her face, running down her cheeks and neck. She felt like she was living one of the many nightmares she had so often lately. Her vision blurred, so that she saw only streaks of firelight from the many torches that blazed in the night.

  The multitude clamored for something to be done. Part of her believed they wished to watch her see it through, make good on her threat—bloodlust in their cries. But in some moments, she heard more truly, as the war-weary people of Recityv began to chant for the king to answer Layosah’s demand.

  In the extremity of her need, she called out one last time: “Or else I should rather dash my babe on this stone stair and snuff her life, than see her bear another generation to war!”

  The greatest tumult yet rose from those gathered in the courtyard and in the streets around Solath Mahnus.

  As the din died down, one of the guards crept close enough that she heard him when he said, “The king does not yield to threats or demands. You will have to kill you child or stand down.”

  Layosah turned to the Sheason, who had been close by throughout her stand here, and whose face still was a mask of doleful understanding. He returned her stare and slowly shook his head. He would not help her if she did this thing.

  I must not yield. So much depends on it….

  She knew that once she threw down her child, her life was forfeit. Not by dint of law. But because her mind and soul would be broken. The only reassuring thought was that of walking slowly into a still, cold lake until her feet could no longer touch the bottom and she could slip soundlessly to her own death.

  She wept openly, helplessly ranting against her own plan to kill Audra, even as she prepared to cast the child down on the steps of her king’s castle. The throng wailed, loud in her ears. The guards watched, their eyes wide.

  She began to rock back on her heels to give her arms momentum. She closed her eyes, because she couldn’t bear to watch her darling Audra fly to her death, but in the instant of her blindness, she saw the faces of her family. Most of all, she saw Eddock and the moments they had shared in joy and pain over the lives they’d created, the family they’d shared.

  With those images in her mind and the sound of the great crowd in her ears, she heard through the din the sharp cry of a child. It wasn’t Audra. The sound struck her, and she opened her eyes, casting her gaze out over the thousands gathered in the courtyard and beyond the Wall of Remembrance. She suddenly took note of fathers holding up sons so that they could see, young girls seated near their parents’ feet, mothers holding infants of their own.

  So many young lives, newly begun, and brought into the world by parents…who still…

  Layosah shot a look at Sheason Nolaus and found a warm smile. She had found the answer to the question she’d posed him a few nights earlier. She understood now that she could not have fully appreciated simply being given that answer. She had to feel it for herself:

  It’s what sets us apart, isn’t it?

  What’s that?

  Hope.

  The realization did not come as a new or profound revelation, but rather as a simple, quiet truth. She, like so many others, lived on. They loved, and had families in the face of uncertainty…and hoped.

  Her vision blurred from weariness. Her strength began to fail. She looked up at the daughter she still held aloft, preparatory to an act of desperation and hopelessness.

  Layosah let out a heartrending cry: “No!”

  She collapsed upon the steps, folding Audra into her chest, safe and crying. She huddled over her, feeling broken and bitter and shamed. But for all the dark moments and feelings, she could not let the last good thing she and Eddock had done together be destroyed, certainly not by her own hand. Her love of her husband and of her little one simply would not allow it.

  Silence followed. Only the hum of torches, as her child quieted against her breast.

  She did not know how long she had lain there when a hand firmly gripped her shoulder. The guards, she thought, who would now strip her child from her and lock her in the depths of Solath Mahnus. But when she looked up, she saw the thoughtful face of her king. He looked ready to say something, his eyes alight in the flames of nea
rby torches. But he remained silent, staring at her and her child. Perhaps it was her fatigue, or the ache in her spirit after so much loss, or the numbing fear of what would now happen to her, but whatever the reason, Layosah thought she saw change in her king. She stared up into his dark, wondering eyes.

  The man then again put a hand gently on Audra’s head, and stood to face the great multitude. He met their expectant stares, and she thought he might make some grand speech to allay their worries, perhaps even commend her willingness to do her child harm to rouse him from the depths of his keep. He did neither.

  After several long moments, and still looking out over the people who’d gathered to support Layosah’s defense of another generation of children—trying to save them from the horrors of war—he spoke instead to a captain of his personal guard, one she’d not noticed before.

  “Call the birders, bring heralds to me here, now.” He said nothing more before he fell silent again and waited.

  Shortly, those summoned made their way through the crowd, gathering around the king. He took up a quill and ink and wrote out a message on a parchment. While the crowd watched, his men copied the short script several dozen times on individual sheets.

  When the task was done, the king nodded to his captain. “Make way,” the captain said, gesturing for the people to part, as horses were brought to the steps of Solath Mahnus.

  The heralds mounted. The birders fastened notes to the legs of small raptors. When stillness reclaimed the outer courtyard, King Baellor spoke with a resoluteness Layosah could not remember ever hearing.

  “Recityv will stand alone no longer. If your sons and daughters are called upon to perish for her sake, it will be at the side of children raised in kingdoms other than our own.” He stopped, seeming to consider what next to say. “No, not to perish. To vanquish. To end our centuries of suffering. I’ve been a fool, quailing before the politics of alliance like a coward, beneath the politics that make alliances so fraught with difficulty. I will be a fool no more.”

  He then raised a hand. At that signal, the birds took flight, and the mounted heralds stormed from the courtyard in a thundering of hooves over stone. Layosah watched with weary eyes, the air fairly filled with birds winging skyward into the darkness, carrying the king’s message, and horses gaining speed as they passed the Wall of Remembrance, their riders bent low in the saddle, racing with their majesty’s words tucked into their shirts.

  It was done. She had made him see. At some cost that she felt she would later understand—the awful notion of what she’d almost done here—she’d made him see.

  Over the flutter of wings and clatter of hooves, the great crowd broke into a deafening chorus of cheers. The king did not stand to receive any of it, but instead turned and bent near to her.

  “You’ve reminded me of my oath, Anais. Thank you. This convocation of seated kings and other rulers… I will endeavor to be as compelling with them as you have been with me.” He reached down and helped her to her feet. The king then gathered the swords strewn nearby, and, carrying them himself beneath one arm, he assisted her up the steps toward Solath Mahnus. “You will rest. Then you will tell me of the men who carried these swords. Each one. Sparing nothing.”

  Together they ascended the stone stairs as the relieved and hopeful cries of the city faded behind them.

  Copyright 2011 by Peter Orullian

  Peter Orullian’s

  Vault of Heaven stories and books

  The Unremembered

  (Tor Books)

  Sacrifice of the First Sheason

  (Tor.com short story)

  The Great Defense of Layosah

  (Tor.com short story)

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  Contents

  Introduction by James Frenkel

  The Battle of the Round

  Peter Orullian’s Vault of Heaven stories and books

  Introduction by James Frenkel

  In his novel The Unremembered, Peter Orullian writes about Aeshau Vaal, a world with a long history marked by a series of protracted wars of aggression pursued by the benighted creatures of the Bourne, an isolated region in which they were confined by the gods who made the world. For as long as anyone now alive can recall, these creatures have waged war against the forces of many nations across the land inhabited by mankind.

  Over a period of many centuries these conflicts took a great toll on the nations. But in the course of Aeshau Vaal’s history there also were times when dire circumstances produced defining moments that changed the fate of the world.

  “The Battle of the Round” is the story of one such moment. As our own history has proven time and again, people are capable of great things—great evil, or great good—and we don’t necessarily know when something of great moment occurs, until afterward. Similarly, war sometimes produces famous heroes, but often the people we call heroes are only a small part of the story that produced an heroic outcome. And other times, the real heroes of history are not really known, because those whose actions produce heroic results don’t think of themselves as heroes. They may, in fact, be not terribly heroic, and tragically flawed, fallible…and human. And by doing what humans do under the most trying circumstances, they may become part of something greater than themselves. Besides that, they are most likely too busy trying to survive the next moment to consider the importance of what they’re doing.

  This tale takes place in the desperate hours of a battle in which magic—or a power that might seem like magic—is a weapon wielded with literally withering effect by a foe so ruthless that it feels no remorse whatsoever when it unleashes its devastating power at the expense of its enemies…and of the land itself.

  In penning this piece, the author has written less about the clash of force against force as much as about the moral dilemma faced by those who must contend against this ruthless foe. War, by its nature, presents combatants with many bad choices, and seldom with easy answers. When the fight is for survival, there will always be a temptation to attempt to win at any cost. The Sheason named Maral Praig is faced with such a temptation, and with other difficult choices, at a critical moment in a long, debilitating battle.

  How he responds, and how it all turns out is something you’ll have to discover as you read this last of tor.com’s three stories before publication of The Unremembered set in the past of Aeshau Vaal, the setting of Orullian’s Vault of Heaven series. Like the previous stories, “The Battle of the Round” is but a brief moment in the world’s long, complex saga, but also like those others, it contains the seeds of things to come in the novel, legendary events that will echo down the centuries to shape the world for generations to come.

  This battle is but one of many landmark events in the history of the world. There are others that may be found, along with much else of interest to readers, at www.orullian.com.

  The Battle of the Round

  Maral Praig knelt beside the bleeding soldier and examined his wounds. A sword or spear had punctured the man’s gut several times. He would die if Maral did not heal him. But to make the lad whole—if it could be done at all—would cost him greatly; he’d have to use much of his own spirit to do it, leaving him with less of that spirit to use in tending to others, men whose wounds were less severe, who might be able to return to the battle right away. He looked down, helpless, into the face of the young man, feeling damned no matter what he chose to do.

  Sounds of war filled the air. Metal rang against meta
l, and the unearthly cries of the inhuman Quietgiven foe unnerved him. The soldier locked eyes with Maral, pain and fear drawing his features tight. But the lad managed to nod perceptibly, lending Maral the strength to push through the clamorous din. Gently, he placed his hand on the soldier’s chest, invoked the Will, and caused him to sleep. It took little energy to do it, leaving him still able to tend to many others today.

  The lad would die. But at least he would feel nothing as he bled his last.

  Maral bowed his head, wondering if the young soldier had a wife, maybe children, and silently hoped he did not.

  How many? he thought. How many have I let die…

  Maral raised his eyes and looked around. Several of the Sheason he led were tending the wounds of other injured soldiers. Not for the first time, he questioned his decision to send some of his fellow Sheason to render the Will in battle, leaving others, like himself, to heal those who were wounded. He also felt some small bit of shame that he had chosen to lead from here, instead of from the battlefront.

  But he was Randeur of the Order of Sheason, with certain knowledge and authority that he was duty bound to hold safe. He mustn’t fall. Still, it did not diminish his feeling that he should be standing with those who, like this soldier lying before him, put their lives at risk.

  With his hand still resting on the lad’s forehead, a sudden stream of images flashed through his mind, the soldier’s dying memories, familiar memories, comforting ones, images of a young boy, maybe five years old, and a little girl just learning to walk. Then a young woman, his wife, smiling at him as he wrestled on the floor of their home with their little ones. She joined the playful fray, which ended in a tender kiss as the children continued to tug at them. He thought he could smell minty beef stew and mild plum wine and hear a chorus of laughter, when abruptly it stopped.