“Now what would an Emperor give to an alchemist able to give him such wondrous weapons?” Wetiko said quietly.
Feng Xi nodded slowly, unable to take his eyes away from the flames. After a few moments he turned towards Wetiko and started – he was alone in his house once again. He looked up and Wetiko’s cloak was gone, leaving only a puddle on the floor.
The alchemist turned back towards his bench and saw that the oiled piece of parchment remained on his bench top. With a sigh of relief, Xi made his way to the bench and held the parchment to prove to himself that it was real.
Indeed, the powder weapons Wetiko had shown him were impressive, and no doubt the Emperor would reward him handsomely for such a prize. However, Feng Xi was a Taoist, devoted to achieving harmony with nature and the pursuit of spiritual immortality. Wetiko’s visions of war troubled the alchemist.
As he often did when faced with difficult decisions, Xi turned to meditation. He lit a stick of incense, knelt down on a folded bamboo mat and began the familiar breathing exercises. As his mind cleared, the alchemist recalled Wetiko’s image of the powder bursting into light high above the battlefield. Perhaps he could use just such a demonstration to impress the Emperor.
And if the Emperor’s generals decide to use the powder as a weapon, how could a humble palace alchemist argue? After all, can man not use anything, even stones, to wage war?
Opening his eyes, Feng Xi glanced around his humble home and began to smile. Fortune had finally smiled upon him.
If I Were a Betting Man
by Geoffrey Thew
With sharp eyes, the General glared through the steam blanketing the hot spring.
"No."
The white monkey's shoulders sunk beneath the bubbling water.
"Oh, be a sport," said the macaque.
"The last time I made a bet with you, the great Library burned."
“You didn't even like that place! You said it was boring."
“It was a bastion of civilization. Of course I liked it.... Just, not as much as other things."
He glanced wistfully down to the carnage erupting at the foot of the mountain. Katanas – such beautiful instruments, perfectly tuned – slipped neatly through the gap between jaw and collarbone, loosing a glorious eruption of
Hot water, in his eyes. Ow. The monkey had splashed him and shattered his reverie. He resumed glaring at its stupid, smug face.
"Either way, I fixed it."
"That's not the point, Trickster."
"Just hear me out, brother. I'm making you a great offer."
Wetiko sighed. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, which lay next to him at the spring's edge. "Do be concise. I have things to get back to..."
"I am betting you my next season."
Wetiko's lifting eyebrows pulled his glare asunder. There weren't many things gods valued, but time, time was precious.
"The whole thing?"
"The entire century, not a minute less. And if I win, I'll only take a hundred years of your next one."
"What's the bet?"
"You always bang on about how great civilization is. How cities and castles and armies 'elevate men beyond their base nature' and glorify you."
"You think I'm wrong?" Wetiko chuckled. "Get to the point."
"By the end of Mother's coming season, a new empire will rise up that spans from ocean to ocean. They will sack your great cities, conquer your armies, and bring down your kings."
"That sounds glorious! Why would I bet against them?"
"The rulers of this empire will be goat herders."
Wetiko loosed a powerful laugh.
"Brother, if you are so desperate to give me your century, I will take it with no pretence."
"And if you're so confident, then you should take my bet."
"You asked me to be sporting. No Barbarian will make it past the walls of any great city."
Trickster gave Wetiko his toothiest monkey grin. "The longest, greatest wall you have will not stop them."
Wetiko eyed his brother warily.
"There won't be any giant horses involved, will there?"
"On my honour, no wooden livestock of any breed."
Wetiko stood up from the spring, and in a flash he was fully armoured, his sword drawn.
"You have yourself a bet, brother. And I have a battle to win."
With that, he was off, down the mountain, chortling like a lunatic. Once he was out of earshot, Trickster slumped into the water and unleashed his own manic cackle.
••
Ten years later, that same cackle echoed across a desolate, snowy plain. The source was a frail old man who stood on a hill, stark naked, next to an imposing, red-haired man in thick, furry armour. The man's horse was grazing a few feet away.
"So there he is, knife poised," Trickster giggled, "and I'm all 'Psyche! You don't gotta kill your kid.' You should have seen the look on his face. Isaac was ticked, though."
His companion scanned the horizon, then let out a sigh. "I should head back to my Yurt."
"Don't be like that, Temujin, they're coming."
Temujin shot the smirking geezer a dubious look. "No offence, wise man, but I – "
"Guy. Wise GUY. Why do you people always mix that up?"
"Sorry. As I was saying, I know my people. This whole idea is unrealistic."
"Be honest. Do I give off, like, a guru vibe to you? Because I try really hard not to." Trickster gave Temujin a very earnest look.
"Uh... yeah, kind of?"
"Oh." Despondence dragged down the old man's bony shoulders. "How?"
"Well, for one thing, you're naked in knee-deep snow."
Trickster cocked his eyebrow. "That seems wise to you?"
"I assume there's hidden wisdom, like the... endurance training of the monks."
"Those guys still do that? Humans can be so gullible."
Trickster was grinning again, and it was Temujin's turn to cock his eyebrow.
"At any rate, in all the time we've roamed these lands, my people have never once made a collective movement."
A dark cloud cast a shadow across the moon, and there was rumbling in the distance.
"And now a storm is brewing, so I'm going to go get some sleep, if you'd kindly stop wasting my time."
"No."
"No? What, do you want more image consulting?"
"No. Well, yes, but that's not why I'm wasting your time."
Temujin gritted his teeth. "So you admit to deliberately wasting my time. Why?"
The rumbling grew louder. Trickster flashed a huge, toothless grin. "Because that's no storm."
Temujin looked toward the source of the rumbling as the moon emerged from behind the cloud. Out of the shrinking darkness rode scores of large, hairy men on horseback, all shouting exuberantly.
"I guess I was wrong about my people."
"That is one heck of a collective movement. But don't sweat it, most people don't know their own strength." Trickster patted Temujin on the shoulder.
"Congratulations, Genghis Kahn."
The red-headed Mongol could do little but smile.
"Oh, I just reminded myself, I have to go fleece a guy. See you later."
The old man pulled the air up over himself like a cloak and was gone, leaving the man who was Temujin to survey his rapidly expanding empire.
••
Ninety years on, in a bustling, arid marketplace, a bald brute of a man leaned up against the stall of a young girl selling wooden carvings. The girl wore a golden plate on her head, and casually whittled away at a chunk of oak.
"This is hogwash," the man grumbled.
Across the dusty road, a spindly old man wearing nothing but a loin-cloth and a barely subdued look of anguish gingerly stepped across a bed of glowing coals. The girl snickered.
"You see that? I taught them that. Humans can be so gullible."
The large man picked up a carved monkey from the stand and shot the girl a sidelong glance. "Gods too?"
Th
e girl gave the man an excessively innocent look.
"What makes you say that, bro?"
"You told me nomads would conquer this land," Wetiko growled angrily, "but they staged attacks out of cities."
"Which they conquered while they were still nomads."
Wetiko's fist began to clench.
"They used cutting-edge weapons."
"Which they stole from the cities."
"They used brute force, not cunning."
"I promised you no tricks."
The carvings rattled together as Wetiko began shaking with rage.
"I don't see any of these guards herding goats!" He shouted.
Trickster paused from her carving to wag a condescending finger. "Be sensible. If you had an empire all of a sudden you'd quit the herding business too."
Wetiko leaned into the stall and let out a guttural roar in Trickster's face. Concerned, nearby guards began to approach the stall, but the little girl casually waved them off.
"So are you gonna honour our bet or not?"
"Yes." Wetiko grinned menacingly. "But I will have revenge for this."
He finally unclenched his fist, and sawdust slipped out between his fingers to mix with the sand at his feet. Trickster finished her carving and let her hands rest on her thighs.
"Oh, probably. But I'm not worried."
"Why not?"
Trickster smiled down at the freshly carved monkey nestled in her lap.
"You know me, I live in the moment."
Scroll of Ragnarok
by Gama Martinez
Rothgar was dying, and it wasn't a good death. It wasn't a warrior's death. It wasn't fair. He'd been strong a few days ago when he fought in a great battle that ended with both sides destroyed. He'd been the only one standing. The storm that came after had forced him into this cave and trapped him there. He was still in enemy territory. If he could only get up and face them, he'd find a worthy death, but his strength had left him. He wasn't even sure how long it had been. His body tried to vomit, but nothing remained in his stomach. He'd vomited out everything hours ago. That was just before he'd lost control of his bowels. He could barely move. He would die in his own waste. It was the worst death he could imagine. What had he done that the gods had cursed him so?
"Dear Rothgar," a woman's voice said, "you have done nothing."
How could anyone, much less a woman, make it through the storm? For a moment, he wondered if a Valkyrie had come to take him away to Valhalla, but that was impossible. His death would never attract one. He looked up, but his vision blurred. He squinted, but couldn't make the figure out. He thought she looked familiar.
"Mother?" His mouth was dry, and his throat ached from the effort of speaking.
"After a fashion."
Fingers touched the side of his head, and his vision cleared. The woman before him was tall, at least a head taller than he was. Her golden hair shone, and her eyes were the colour of ice. Her flowing robes looked like they were made of mist. Though he'd never seen her, he knew her. She who held the fate of men and gods in her hand, the Norn who governed the future.
"Skuld."
"I have been called such. I would have you do a service for me, Rothgar."
Rothgar laughed. At least he tried to, but his laugh turned to coughing. Then, he vomited blood.
"What would you have me do, Lady?" he asked. "Though I warn you, unless it is to deliver a message to Hel, I fear I will be inadequate to the task."
Skuld bent down and lifted his shirt. Dried blood had crusted it to the wound, and Rothgar winced as it tore away. He tried to lift his head, but it did no good. Skuld shook her head and walked over to his sword. She ran her finger along it.
He tried to speak, but only coughed. Finally, he was able to wheeze out a few words.
"Please, Lady, can I have some water?"
Skuld looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Then she laughed.
"Water. Such a curious thing. To one dying of thirst, it is more precious than gold, but too much..."
Her voice made Rothgar shiver. He wasn't sure he wanted to accept water from her hand. "Your service, Lady?"
"You can write."
It wasn't a question. "I could once, Lady, but now, I've no strength left."
"You will die at the end of this day, Rothgar. Your thread will be cut. That part of your fate cannot be changed, but if you will do me a service, I will restore your strength and give you some dignity in death."
Rothgar closed his eyes. He could barely summon the strength to nod. But when he raised his head, he felt strong. He stood up and almost danced, but he looked at the Norn and knew it wouldn't last.
"I'm cold," she said. "Start a fire."
It was almost unbelievable that this being could be cold, but he wasn't going to argue with she who held the future in her hand. The stack of wood he'd gathered earlier stood at the mouth of cave. He'd lacked the strength to use it before. Though he wondered at the wisdom of lighting a fire in enemy territory, he did as she asked and went back to sit with his benefactor. A paper and charcoal stick were next to him. He could only guess they had come from Skuld.
She began a tale of terrible wars engulfing the word, and he wrote everything she said. Earthquakes shook the foundations of the world. Fire consumed all before everything on the surface of Midgard drowned in a flood. Rothgar could almost see it in his mind.
"Lady, can even the gods survive such a battle?" he asked.
"It will be a twilight for us."
"Ragnarok," he said. Skuld nodded. "May the gods preserve us."
"Loki the Trickster holds the world in his hands. He would have mankind forget me, but I will not allow it. From here, the story will spread to the far reaches. People will remember, and that memory will bring them back to me." Her face hardened, and for a second, Rothgar was afraid, but when she looked at him, her features softened. "Your time is coming, dear Rothgar. You've been writing for hours. Does your hand not ache from it?"
"It is of no moment, Lady," he said.
"Here!" a voice called out. "There is a fire here!"
Rothgar turned to look at the mouth of the cave. He stood up and grabbed his sword. He moved to defend Skuld, but the Norn had vanished. A bear of man carrying an axe came in.
"Thank you," Rothgar said under his breath.
There was no need for talk. The man lifted his axe, but Rothgar ducked under it and thrust his sword into the man's chest. Ribs cracked as the sword broke through and pierced his adversary's heart. He tried to pull it out, but the weapon stuck. The next thing Rothgar knew, he was on the ground. The man's companion had stabbed him in the stomach. He saw them pick up the scroll of Ragnarok. As he faded from consciousness, Rothgar smiled. He would wake in Valhalla, where he would await the terrible events described in the scroll he'd written for the woman who, in his delirium, he had called Mother.
The Fox and the Bowman
by Sebastien de Castell
The faint creak of the bow let Thomas know he’d drawn it as far as the yew could allow before breaking. Two hundred yards at least, he thought, and prayed his position atop the hill would help him bridge the distance. If he couldn’t hit Sir Hamond’s armoured hide from here then all of his sacrifice would have been for nought. Thomas squinted, just barely able to make out the golden eagle crest on Sir Hamond’s tabard. Letting out one last breath, he aimed for the dead centre of that eagle, and hoped a sudden wind didn’t take his arrow astray.
“That’s an odd sort of bird you’re hunting tonight,” a voice called out.
Thomas spun around. “Who’s there?” He trained his bow on a man of middle years stepping out from behind the trees.
“I’m not entirely sure it’s legal to shoot a bird of that particular type, and I’m positive it won’t taste very good.” The man’s hair and short, neatly trimmed beard were reddish brown, almost russet in colour, framing angular features and a cocky smile. His long leather coat fringed in silver fur at the collar marked him as a foreigner, at
least from these parts. Glinting rings, each bearing colourful gemstones, decorated long, manicured fingers. The man might have been a wealthy merchant, or perhaps a minor noble, but what mattered most was that he was a witness to Thomas’s impending crime.
“Don’t come any closer!” Thomas said. “Go back the way you came, forget you were ever here and I’ll let you live.” He did his best to muster the tone of an angry soldier but what came out was a quivering mess.
“Now why on earth would I want to do that?” the nobleman asked. He walked casually over to the edge of the outcropping next to where Thomas knelt, seemingly unconcerned that he might soon find an arrow in his belly. “It’s not the worst plan I’ve ever seen,” he said, idly looking down at the scene below. “Sir Hamond goes down to that little cottage every evening, I imagine? Perhaps to meet with a secret lover?” Without turning his gaze the nobleman reached out a finger and casually brushed the tip of Thomas’s arrow. “Shooting from this height might even give you enough speed and force to pierce that armour.” He removed his finger and tapped it against his lips. “Good thinking. I always say, ‘if you’re going to commit a murder, a hill makes a very discrete accomplice.’”
“Who said anything about murder? I’m just out here—”
The nobleman held up a hand. “Please, Thomas, let’s have no lies between us. Lies are the least elegant form of deception.”
“Who are you? How do you know my name?”
The man bowed low and said, “You may call me Master Reynard.”
“Reynard? Sounds French.”
“Well, I’m not, so let that be some consolation. Funny you should mention the French, though, as they’re a key part of our new plan.”
“Plan? What plan?”
“You want revenge, don’t you? This Sir Hamond of the dependable virility just confiscated some small portion of your family’s farmland, didn’t he?”
“He’s taken more than half!” Thomas cried. His arm was growing stiff and tired from trying to keep the bow drawn. He took a few steps back away from the man and eased the tension on the bow, keeping the arrow nocked and ready. “He’s ruined my father.”
The Book of the Emissaries: An Animism Short Fiction Anthology Page 12