by Allan Cole
Fur and fang,
Squeak and quarrel.
Seek in death
As ye did in life…
Scurrying, always
Scurrying...
Busy in the burrow,
Seek... Seek... Seek!
The rat stirred. First its whiskers flicked, then its nose twitched and pink little eyes fluttered open. The pink dots darted about, then the rat suddenly leaped to its feet. It didn’t wait, didn’t linger, but dashed for the base of the rock wall.
There was a slim depression there between a groundstone and the hard-packed pebbles of the floor. I held onto the thread, made myself small and let the rat carry me with it.
I tugged hard on the thread and then I became that rat diving at the depression. My paws flashed and the floor was scooped away and I saw a hole emerge but it was small, too small. But my little rat mind began to squeeze and squeeze my body... and then, to my amazement, I was suddenly able to disjoint my very bones and my rat body became slender and thin, jamming itself deeper and deeper; practically swimming through pebbles and sand as if they were water. The pebbles fell away and I found myself dodging out from under an earthen shower and my joints reformed themselves and I was a whole rat again. Standing on all fours, whiskers twitching. And I had this sudden thought – so that, how they do it!
Then I was that rat again scurrying along a narrow tunnel.
My wizard’s self felt cobwebs of magical suspicion fall away as I hurried along the tunnel. I was too small and rodent-like to be noticed by our unknown enemy. But I didn’t let myself dwell on it, the wrong mental activity might raise an alarm. I became as rat-like as I could.
I thought, “Eat. Eat. Find eat.”
So I scampered along, burning with rat’s energy, every nerve-end seared by a multitude of sensations. I could hear the storm raging above the burrow but it meant nothing to me.
I was warm, I was quick, I was hungry.
And suddenly I knew the way and I was taking a fast turn to the left as another burrow loomed up. I could smell eat. I could sense others like me thinking eat, eat.
Scuttling along other tunnels like mine. They were full of challenging scents, sniffing me out. Measuring. Judging.
I was measured for fierceness so I made myself the fiercest of all. A ferocious scent rose from me like acrid smoke and I felt my challengers shrink away.
Except for one.
She burst out of a large tunnel and shot toward me, fast as a cat, agile as a snake.
She had one eye, a scarred ear and long teeth that could bite through sword-grade steel. She was the Queen Rat and had borne and fed and guarded many litters through her long lifetime. She had her pick of the males, the best food from the garbage pit that I smelled just behind her.
I knew this Queen Rat had killed many rivals, maimed twice as many upstarts, and was now determined to do the same with me.
I feinted for her right - the blind side - but struck left. My teeth sunk into fur, then flesh. I ripped her snout, then shifted my attack downward, slashing at her belly. I felt sharp teeth sink into my back paw but I paid no mind, twisting around her until I found the spine.
I snapped it in my teeth. The Queen Rat gave a squeal of pain, then went still.
I dived past her body into the tunnel she’d guarded. And there I found treasure - the outpost garbage heap.
I cut the magical thread, breaking the spell, and I was myself again.
Every bone and muscle ached as if I’d just performed the greatest and most strenuous feat in wizardly history.
I held back a groan. So much effort just to be a damned rat.
Then I went to tell my comrades the good news: There was a banquet waiting for us nearby. A feast of old rinds, moldy peels and gobs of grainy fat.
Their mouths watered when I described it.
We suffered much to raid that pit but we ate every filthy scrap of it and mourned the last meal when that dismal moment came.
After that was gone the fuel was next. Our supply dwindled until only enough remained to make a cup of hot water for each of us at the beginning and ending of each day.
During those weeks the storm never ceased. Sometimes it was a blizzard, burying us all in snow. Then the storm would sweep the snow away with winds as dry as desert gales that’d suck all moisture from you, turning your lips into rims of dried flaking sponge.
I don’t know how we survived those weeks in AnteroBay. I’ve heard of other mariners who’ve suffered such things. Some of them, I’ve read, became closer to the gods and praised their names until the day they died for saving them from such misery.
I can’t understand why. As far as I’m concerned the gods deserve a good cursing for tormenting us so.
I can’t adequately describe how cold it became during that storm. At first I thought it was like knives and then I thought it was like a leech – a cold, cold leech with cold, cold teeth, draining me of all power… all will.
I also can’t properly describe how hungry we were. Again, those knives were first in mind. But then I thought, no, it’s like something was eating me. From the inside out. Demons in my belly, in my veins, in my brain, devouring everything that was me.
Incredibly, I thought that perhaps those demons were devouring me, so I could somehow remain me.
The other senses were assaulted as well but after time only the cold and the hunger remained; in a way they even obscured ordinary pain.
We became like automatons whose clockwork was slowly winding down. Every motion was measured, carried out slowly and painfully. There were no flares of temper or hysteria, not because we were all so brave but because we had no energy left for such displays.
A low growl or a single tear would have to suffice to convey emotion.
Then one day we awakened to find that we were one less.
Priam had died.
He was a good-natured seaman but had become even more withdrawn then the rest of us during the crisis and so no one could remember when he’d spoken last. One day he was a cup thrust forward for a ration of hot water and the next day that cup wasn’t there anymore.
We all gaped dully at one another, wondering what had happened when that cup – that stealing cup that took a share a hot water we desired, was no longer there.
Then we realized not What, but Who, was missing.
We found Priam curled up like a child in his parka. Cold and dead.
I suppose there was some sorrow but shortly afterwards I felt a change in the air. Men kept looking over at the bundle that was Priam’s corpse.
I knew what was on their minds.
I called everyone together. Fortunately there was a rare lull in the intensity of the winds and I could make myself heard.
“Let me speak plainly,” I said. “There’s no sense in polite dodgings about the issue at hand.”
I pointed at Priam. “One of our mates is dead. And we’re all sorry for it. Meanwhile, we all intend to live. Priam doesn’t have any use for his body any more. But we could make use of it, thereby letting us all live a little longer.”
I looked around but no one would return my gaze. They all hung their heads as if ashamed. I could see the tension knotting in their jaws.
Carale cleared his throat. “I ‘spect we was all thinkin’ along those lines, Me Lady... And wonderin’ what yer opinion would be.”
“Of cannibalism?” I pressed. “Let’s give it the proper name. You can’t duck it by making it sound better.”
“Yes, my Lady,” Donarius broke in. “And I’ll also call it meat, if yuz don’t mind. For that’s all old Priam be, just now. Meat.”
I shrugged. “I agree,” I said. “And I don’t have any scruples about making use of it.”
Everyone smiled and I could almost feel them inch forward, itching to get out their knives. I raised a hand and everyone froze.
“But I think we ought to consider what we’re about to do,” I cautioned. “If we eat poor Priam, it’ll give us a meal or two. Then we’ll be
without once more.
“Except this time we’ll know where there’s more meat to be had. We’ll start waiting eagerly for the next person to die. Then we might even start encouraging it.”
“None of us be murderers, Me Lady,” Carale protested.
“But could you be?” I asked. “What if we made it easy. What if I suggested that next time we draw straws and that the one with the short straw sacrifice himself. We’d kill him and eat him. It’s been done before, you know. Sometimes there has even been a survivor or two.”
Donarius shuddered. “I’ve heard such tales, Lady Antero,” he said. “We all have. ‘N none of ‘em have been pretty.”
I said, “And all of the... volunteers, shall we call them... didn’t necessarily go bravely, did they? A few screamed and begged for mercy. But it didn’t stay the butcher’s hand. For they’d become... just meat.”
I grabbed up a tin cup and a handful of pebbles.
“Instead of straws,” I said, “we could use pebbles for our lottery. I could mark a number on each stone. Drop them in. One by one.”
I did so, and the rattle of each falling pebble made the men flinch. I stopped at seven. Then I shook the cup about, making a loud clatter.
“Then all we have to do is...” and I held the cup out by way demonstration... “draw a stone.”
Everyone shrank away from the cup as if the lottery were real and their lives had actually become mere stones in a tin cup.
“But I think we ought to decide what to do together,” I said. “We should vote on whatever course we take.”
I looked at the ground and let the tension build.
“Well,” I said. “What shall it be? Do we eat Priam or not?”
The twins said, as one, “Not!”
Then Donarius and Carale: “Not!”
The others weighed in as well and all voted no.
Someone sighed and the men relaxed as if a great burden had lifted. One man even made a joke, I don’t remember what it was or even if it were very funny, but we all laughed as if it were from the Great Jester Of The Gods himself.
The storm’s respite continued and normally we would’ve used the lull for a hurried foraging mission. After Priam’s body had been taken away for later burial, I called the men together again for a much needed talk.
“We’ve all discussed our situation,” I said, “but it’s been in bits and pieces. And I’m not even certain we’ve all been together in one group so all know the same things.”
“We’d ‘preciate a word or two from yer, Me lady,” Carale said.
I hesitated a moment, but not so long that they would distrust me. I realized that after all we had gone through together that I had to risk telling them everything – well, nearly everything. As much as I could without revealing just how helpless I felt. I had to give them hope, whether I believed in it or not.
“Here’s how it is,” I said. “We can do nothing until the storm stops. When it does we’ll still be marooned. The closest place is the other outpost. But I think we’d better assume they’ve also been wiped out.”
“‘Pears we’re gonna have a long walk home, lads,” Carale said, trying to be jolly about it and failing miserably.
“And cold as the hells, too,” one of the Twins said. The other grunted agreement.
“When do yuz think th’ bleedin’ storm will let up, Lady?” Donarius asked.
I answered carefully. As their Evocator, as well as leader, I had to make certain they understood but did not fear. Sorcery sometimes makes even the spellmaker’s skin crawl.
“I keep getting signs that it’ll end any day now,” I said. “There’s a feeling of slackening - like this lull we’ve got now, for instance. Then it picks up again. Harder than before. But there’s time between each lessening, so that gives me hope.”
“Is hope all we gots, Lady?” Donarius growled.
“Meaning, why can’t I stop the storm or at least weaken it?” I said, dry.
Donarius nodded. “No disrespect intended, Lady,” he said, “but I been wonderin’ that... from time to time.”
“The storm might be early,” I said, “but it is natural. Not even all the Evocators of Orissa and wizards of the Far Kingdoms could create such a storm. And it’s so strong a storm that my magical powers have been... limited. It’s like they were flattened...”
And I murmured to myself, half-in thought... flattened in a curve and close to the horizon...
“What was that, Lady Antero?” Donarius broke in. “About bein’ close to th’ horizon or some such. What was close to th’ horizon?”
“Never mind,” I said, “it’s something a scholar will have to figure out. Back to the point. The storm has limited my powers. Why, I can only guess. But I also sense something not quite natural about the storm.”
“Another sorcerer, Me Lady?” Carale asked.
“Almost certainly,” I said. “But the presence I sense is more like a... chorus... a faint chorus at that. And this magical chorus is somehow using the wind to make its influence stronger.”
“Chorus has a sorter friendly ring, Me Lady,” Carale said. “But you haven’t talked ‘bout it in such a friendly manner.”
I shook my head. “It isn’t even vaguely friendly,” I said. “No, it’s looking for something all right. It’s looking for magical presences and anything it finds will be... burned out, is the only way I can describe it.”
I’d never experienced such a thing but I’d instinctively felt my magical flesh squirm each time my enemy’s presence had made itself known.
“That’s why I’ve had even less use of my powers,” I said.
I paused, then, “To be perfectly plain - anything bigger than a rat trick will bring it down on me. And if it gets me, then it’ll know where you are. And it’ll know your business. And it’s likely to disagree.”
Donarius grunted. “I gets yer point, Lady Antero,” he said. “I gets it very well.”
“Pardon, Lady,” came Lizard’s voice. “What do we do when the storm’s over? And you get your powers back? What do we do then?”
“Conjure up a bottle of grog,” I said, “and get you to sing us a good drinking song.”
The men chuckled. It felt almost warm in that chamber of frozen stone. Someone started to tell a story. I leaned closer to listen.
Then the storm howled in on us again and we all scurried back into the snow banks of ourselves.
I dreamed I was standing on a long blue shore and a silver ship came swooping out of a cloudbank. I didn’t find it remarkable in my dream, although I gazed with interest at the straining sails, thinking to myself that it was a windless day.
Then I saw - quite clearly - a woman at the wheel of the ship. She was the color of ivory and an ivory gown whipped around her showing every curve and hollow of her figure. She had long auburn hair that streamed behind her and she made quite a heroic figure as she steered the ship through the sorcerous gale.
I saw her turn, one hand still on the wheel, and she peered toward the shore. Our eyes met and it was as if we were a mere breath apart and I felt thunder shudder through my bones.
Her eyes were dark pools that drew me down. Then they widened in fear and she was back on the silver ship and I was on the shore.
I heard lyre music swell the clouds. Puffing them up with wondrous music and blowing them away on gentle winds that caressed the sails of the silver ship.
And I saw the distant figure in ivory suddenly wrench at the ship’s wheel and then the ship was soaring away in desperate flight, as if fleeing the lyre song.
I watched for a long time, until the ship fled over the horizon.
The lyre music stopped.
I woke up.
I rubbed my eyes, then looked around, feeling oddly out of place. Disoriented. Bewildered. Something was wrong. Something was different.
And then I realized what that difference was.
The storm had ended.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DEATH OF AN EVOCATOR
We came out blinking into sunlight and calm. The sky was eye-searing blue and the ground - thanks to the snow-lashing we’d received in the last blow - was heaped with mounds of dazzling white powder. The sea was smooth, patterned like gray tiles, and at the shoreline the foamy surf was clotted with lumps of ice.
I shuddered in breath, feeling remarkably free. I might be starved and frostbitten but, no thanks to the gods, I was alive!