He stumbled as he reached the bank, when a small stone rolled beneath his boot, and sprawled backward in the brush. Goru laughed again. “Here is your uncle’s message,” he said, and drove his blade at Dval’s chest.
Dval twisted aside. Goru’s blade sank deep in the soil, but Dval’s outstretched hand seized his warhammer. He shoved himself off the bank, swinging as he’d swung at the leaping Toth.
Goru’s head sprang off his shoulders. It spun over and over in the air before it splashed into the river, and his massive body toppled.
Dval’s heart still raced, and blood-rage still filled him. For weeks he had fought the suspicion that his uncle had killed his father. Among the Woguld, positions of power were won by great deeds, and no man among the Woguld had been more admired than Dval’s father.
It had seemed so . . . impossible that his father had died of a mere fall.
Now Dval saw the truth of it.
“This is my message to my uncle who sent you,” he said, and raised his warhammer once more.
He didn’t stop the blows until he’d sundered the warrior’s legs and arms, and hacked the torso open. His hands shook on the warhammer, and his breaths came with increasing effort. When at last he stepped back, his whole body shaking, he said, “Now, Goru, you will not be able to fight or run when you face your enemies in hell.”
He swayed where he stood. His knees felt weak as watered broth. The starlit forest spun for a moment before it grew completely black.
“This way, milord,” Sir Adelheim shouted from the river’s slight bend. His call rang between the riverbank trees like a trumpet on the morning air. “I see your Despatcher awaiting you.”
King Harrill drew himself up on his ash-gray warhorse, but his jaw trembled. He hadn’t left the Courts of Tide since his precious Mehrel’s death, but the messenger who had arrived with the dawn proclaimed good news. Sir Adelheim had urged him to come see it.
The placid clop of twenty horses’ hooves along the bank, and the jingle of their polished harness with each step, subdued the calls of birds. Though the late summer sun burned brightly, the lack of birdsong lent an air of brooding mystery to the forested hills.
Beyond the bend, sun glittered on shallows that flowed between pale sandbars and gray boulders rounded and smoothed by the current.
The view conjured a memory months old now, and King Harrill pressed the edge of his blue robe to his mouth to muffle his moan.
We found a nest of Toth’s eggs on the sandbar near to Moss End. Two thousand eggs. All broken now, all crushed, but for the ten we took with us. The ones that hatched. . . .
Ahead, on the left bank, a wiry dark figure stood alone. He lifted one hand above his head to signal “All is well.”
At that moment the wind shifted, gusting to his face. His horse snorted and stamped beneath him, a moment before he caught the sickly odors of blood and bile, and flesh already starting to ripen under the sun. He gathered a fold of his robe to cover his nose.
The Despatcher, his most experienced and trusted, advanced to greet him. Caught the bridle of his shifting, snorting horse, and held it while he dismounted. “A good night’s work, milord,” the Despatcher smiled, and pointed.
The cloven carcass of a young Toth lay on the river’s bank outside the wall of trees. The spidery monster had clearly been dragged there, as evidenced by bent and broken ferns and bramble in its wake.
King Harrill stooped, eyed the gangly creature with its long jaws full of teeth, then reached out to touch the fractures in its exoskeleton. Two clean, distinct blows of a warhammer. He nodded, and squinted up at his Despatcher. For the first time since his Mehrel’s death, he smiled and said, “This is good news indeed.”
“I can only claim half-credit,” the Despatcher said. “The boy here struck at the same moment.” He gestured behind him.
A lanky figure wrapped in a black cloak leaned in the shadows of the trees. One white hand showed, gripping the cloak’s edge, along with the lower half of a pale face shadowed by the deep hood.
Recognition made the king stiffen. The grosse wurm. The one my daughter speaks of as if he were a pet.
“But this,” the Despatcher said, “is the boy’s work alone.”
King Harrill pivoted to follow the man’s pointing hand.
The headless body strewn at the foot of a small embankment must have been seven feet tall in life. But had it been human?
Fine blue tattoos marked the white severed limbs and split torso like a garment of spider webs. It cannot be human.
“Gestankin!” the king said in a mouth gone dry, and recoiled. “The Gestankin have come among us.”
He stared at the corpse. How can I trust that boy, that wurm? And yet, twice now he has defeated monsters that threaten my people.
He refused to look at the black-cloaked youth, for now. Instead, he faced his Despatcher. “Your service to my person and my people has been exemplary,” he said. “I wish to reward you for this past night’s valiant labors. With what may I make a present? A fine bow? A horse? Choose from the best in the kingdom, and it shall be yours.”
The Despatcher smiled, crinkling dark skin at the corners of his eyes. “Horses and weapons I have, milord. To serve is enough. But if I could beg a boon: Give me the boy.” He nodded toward the hooded figure sitting at the tree’s foot.
“The boy?” King Harrill searched the man’s face. “That wurm? What would you do with a slave?”
The older man’s smile broadened. “Not a slave, milord. I am growing too old to serve you properly. The boy has already proven his worth. I desire an apprentice. . . .”
He looked to the boy, to see if the stoic lad registered approval, and saw nothing.
I chose wisely. The boy is more at home in the woods than in any city.
Gustafas spoke silently, as was his wont, asking the boy for his opinion with a slight tilt of his head.
Dval looked to the king hopefully, then to Gustafas. An almost imperceptible nod was his only answer.
Rachel Caine
* * *
Well. I’d like to explain where this story came from, but in truth, I’m not entirely sure. I sat down one day and began writing it on my phone (!) while I was sitting in the emergency room (!), and before I knew it, I’d written something I truly liked. It’s weird. It’s fun. It makes a heck of a good dramatic reading aloud. And yes, it also expresses my frustration with the way Internet disagreements become death threats and life-ruining crusades, all without real penalties. I love the Internet. I just wish we had better control of our darker selves on it.
Rachel Caine
Figures
Rachel Caine
You really want to know what it’s like? Jesus. Are you sure?
Okay. You bought the coffee today, I guess I owe it to you.
Here’s how it is: in the silence after the shot, you just wait. You wait to see if you hurt, if you bleed, if you die. In that split second, you’re caught in that strange world of possibilities, where you might be living or dying or both or neither, and here’s the thing nobody understands: it’s a total fucking rush.
It doesn’t always go your way. Sooner or later, you either lose, or you lose your nerve. Until then, it’s terror and adrenaline and that fucking rush and so much money, my God, you just can’t imagine. I’ve been at it for three years now, and that’s damn near a world record. I have my third Gold Seal, and nobody gets to four. Gallatin came close last year, but got a head shot for his trouble to cap it off.
I’m the one who killed him, so I should know: nobody gets that fourth and final seal, because if anybody did, well, he—or she—would be unbeatable.
Nobody’s unbeatable.
So where was I? Oh yeah, the shot. You count after: one, two, three. By the time you get to three, if you’re hit, you’ll feel it. It comes as a warm sensation, a strange heat, a feeling that something’s gone very, very wrong. Maybe it’s just a graze, if you’re lucky, but most of us get one or two near-fatals before we ki
ck off. If you feel that, by the way, the best thing to do is fall right down. If you fall, they’ll get medical help to you quicker than if you try to tough-guy through. Seconds count when you’re bleeding out. I should embroider that on a fucking sampler, right?
If you get to three and aren’t hit, the rush starts to fade. Your body realizes it’s okay after all, and there’s a strange disappointment that comes along with that. You lower your arm and wait for your opponent to fall down, and you hope like hell that happens. You hope like burning hell, because if nobody hits the ground, you have to take three paces closer and you fire again. (You don’t want that. Makes both of you look like assholes. Everybody remembers those two poor sad bastards in Philly a few years back who had to get all the way to point-blank range, and then they blew each other’s faces right fucking off, and nobody wants to see that. Gruesome.)
After that, presuming you’re standing and your opponent isn’t, you walk over to the Arbiter and they award damages, and you walk away with a hefty chunk of the proceeds while your boss, the Injured Party or the Infringing Party, gets the smaller share, and gets put on the Block List, so they can’t hire a Seal again for twelve months.
Wait, you look confused now. Okay, so here’s the deal: you got in some kind of stupid nasty trollish online thing, no, I don’t care about the details, about whether it was ethics in gaming journalism or diversity or equality or rape culture or slut shaming or feminazis or religious freedom or pedophiles or bigots or Islamists or war on Christmas or vaccines or organic farming or whatever the fucking hell the outrage is at this precise moment, I don’t keep track. You have three choices once notice gets served of Intent to Arbitrate by somebody you pissed off: sign off the Internet, forever, which frankly nobody ever picks because they’re like crack addicts with the shit, or else you either get your ass to a gun range and hope your opponent is too cheap to go pro, or (your best choice, obviously) you hire somebody like me to bring actual skills to the party. Usually it ends up Seal vs. Seal, professionals all around, which is nice and clean. Pretty rare these days to find some Internet Rambo who has the guts to gun up in real life. It’s always hilarious when it does, though. Good times.
So that’s me. Sealed, bonded, licensed to carry and kill in Arbitration. I get hired, and somebody tells me what the outrage is—I don’t care, but it’s a legal requirement, and I have to legally hear and agree to take it up. Then the hiring party tells me the time and place, I show up, and maybe another Seal shows up to face me, or not. Easy cash money if the other party backs off, and that does happen a lot, because of budget or just plain good sense. If an opponent does show, we face off and the Arbiter gives everybody face time to apologize or back down, and if nobody does, we pace it off, turn, and fire. Rinse and repeat, three steps at a time, until somebody wins the argument. “Wins” in scare quotes, because of course you don’t. You just settle the particular conflict and move on to the next one.
Why do I do it? You ask like it’s a crap job. It’s not. I stay off the ’Net (Seals don’t get real access until they retire, but they hardly ever just retire) and I have a job that I’m good at, one that’s meaningful and useful because it keeps people generally civil and calm online, and it pays a fuckton of cash money. Plus, with all the billions of people arguing in languages I’ve never even heard of, that’s solid work security, just as regular as the funeral trade and lots more fun. Someone’s always going to piss somebody else off online, even with all the penalties legislated for doing it. It’s a given, as sure as death and taxes.
Mostly death.
So that’s me. You came here with Intent to Arbitrate, so let’s get on with it, yeah? Just tell me the issue, so we can swear on oath that I heard and agreed. Whatever, right? Whatever. Go. And no, there’s no discount. Don’t care who you are.
. . .
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. You almost got me, you know that? How long did you practice for that, years? Must have been years for you to be that fast on the draw, and I admit, I didn’t expect it. Not outside the official Arbitration rules, not here, sitting down over a cup of fucking expensive coffee. So you grazed me, I’ll give you that, but at this range, you really should have blown my head off. Nerves, huh? Such a bitch. And now I’ve got my gun right in your face. Sucks to be you.
Oh, relax, I’m not going to kill you. Killing you now would void my Seals. You’re permanently on the Block List, and you just gave up your Internet access for the rest of life. Hope it was worth giving me a fucking flesh wound and wasting my time.
Yeah, I know you meant it for my own good, to stop me from killing more people. But the thing is, I’m not a murderer. I’m not a psychopath. I have a job. If you want to stop me killing people, make them stop arguing about shit on the Internet and get out to do something real.
Besides, I can’t kill you.
I love you, Mom.
Aidan Moher
* * *
I grew up reading a lot of adventurous fantasy. Books by Terry Brooks, Tad Williams, and R.A. Salvatore littered my bedside. Even as I’ve aged, and my tastes have expanded, I always return to the rolling hills of of Osten Ard, the cities of the Four Lands, and the adventures of my adolescence. That’s where my heart can be found.
A few years ago, I began writing the Patchwork Priest stories—a series of interconnected novels and short stories that follow Farid Sulayk, the eponymous priest-turned-sellsword, as he falls into the lives and conflicts of troubled characters throughout the world. From Atan-Shah to the Sinking Moon Islands, Farid gets around—and trouble usually follows. “The Red-Rimmed Eyes of Tóu Mǎ” is the first of those stories.
Farid’s adventures provide a canvas for big battles, memorable set pieces, interesting cultures, and limitless possibilities for worldbuilding. You want cities built on the backs of huge inter-dimensional beasts? You got it. Automatons and mechanical appendages powered by djinn? Yep, that too. Skybound castles where everyone rides rhuuks and airships? Sure, why not? As a writer, I’m inspired by fantasy that ignites my imagination and makes me whoop in delight, so that’s the type of fantasy I write.
I hope you enjoy it.
Aidan Moher
The Red-Rimmed Eyes of Tóu Mǎ
Aidan Moher
The woman with the red-rimmed eyes watched Farid Sulayk from across a small table. A few wisps of black hair, shocking against her unusually pale skin, escaped her scarlet scarf and fluttered in the air of the drafty tearoom.
Farid ran his thumb over the crease that folded the telegram in half. The pad of his thumb was raw and would soon blister if he did not stop the nervous tic. He traced the length of the crease again. And again. A blistered thumb would be the least of his problems if he could not get to O’oa Tsetse by the next full moon.
“My name is Tóu Mǎ,” the woman said. “I’d like to hire you.” Her voice was thin as a child’s caught in a summer storm. A surprise considering her broad shoulders and muscular frame. Farid felt a kindling desire for the woman, but he stamped it down. “You’ve been recommended to me as a sellsword.”
Recommended? Faird had done a few odd jobs for coin around the city: manual labour, grunt work, but nothing to suggest him as a bladed mercenary. He’d left that label behind on the old continent along with his other names.
“I’m not for hire,” he said. There was an edge to his voice, a threat of violence, but Tóu Mǎ was unperturbed. Farid noticed the way her eyes lingered too long on his moye ti—his djinn-powered mechanical arm, crafted years ago by his friend Qin.
The telegram on the table was from Qin. She was in trouble.
“You’ve been recommended to me as a coinless sellsword,” Tóu Mǎ said, mischief in the curl of her lip. Her words thickened in the humid air. Farid sipped his tea. She retrieved a long, thin cigarette from a box in her pocket. Lit it. She took a drag and light splashed her face.
Farid’s fire djinn stirred. It rested in the coals of a nearby brazier. It rose, like flame licking upwards from burning wood, and leaped from
the brazier to the table, then to Farid’s lap, where it nestled warmly.
“I need you to help my people.” Smoke escaped Tóu Mǎ’s lips with each word.
The djinn purred, as though it empathized with the stranger and her people.
“Yah.” Farid only wanted to drink his tea alone in this quiet corner of Tseng Aa, while contemplating the bitterness of his situation. Qin had saved his life, and she needed his help before the rise of the next full moon. Unfortunately, he was trapped half an island away.
“My village is in trouble, held like a bit in the gnashing teeth of Wu-jiu.” Smoke trailed from the rosebud tip of her cigarette.
“A bit is used for control of a steed. So who controls whom?” Farid said, forcing a smile.
“I do not ride.” She glanced down, embarrassed.
“Wu-jiu is a bandit lord? Harrying you and your flock?”
She shook her head.
“A wind drake, burning your crops and stealing your children?”
No.
“A diplomat, weaving words around necks like a noose?”
“She is a warlock.” Tóu Mǎ shrank a little as she said this, aware of its weight.
Farid lowered his teacup and the smile left his lips. “No.”
“But—”
“No. We’re done.”
He summoned the fire djinn to his moye ti. It dissolved from his lap, and his mechanical arm lit with its energy and released a small puff of steam from a vent on its side. His tea was cold, too bitter. He tried to catch the tearoom attendant’s eye. She ignored him. Farid dug his purse out of a jacket pocket, and realized perhaps he did not want her attention after all. It was nearly empty.
“Bloody expensive city,” he muttered.
The new moon outside the teahouse was not visible from the lower tiers of Tseng Aa, where Farid was staying. An airship could get him to O’oa Tsetse in less than a day, but his hopes of travelling by that route were as empty as his pockets. The next quickest option, the highways, might get him there in time, but they were blockaded by rebels. They might not hinder Farid, but they also required a tariff that he could not afford.
Unfettered II: New Tales By Masters of Fantasy Page 22