The Way of the Black Beast

by Stuart Jaffe

  She worked her way from one key point to the next. A stack of containers lashed to the deck. A door level with the deck. The first mast. When it came time to run for the second, the ship lurched upward and she fell.

  On the rain-soaked deck, Malja swooshed down and gained too much momentum. She slid right by the second mast and rolled on her back only to see the third mast coming upon her like an immovable wall hungry to break her bones. Viper! She spun onto her stomach, snatched Viper from her back, and slammed the blade into the deck. With a trail of sparks and the shriek of metal grinding metal, Viper dug in and slowed Malja's descent.

  The ship crested. Malja jumped to her feet and stumbled for the door. Every muscle moved, but with maddening sloth. She pried it open, and once inside, heat enveloped her. She leaned back against the door and took a moment to shiver in the darkness.

  The room smelled foul like rotting food and feces. Even with no light, she felt cramped. Soon her body would move again. As her heart calmed and her breathing slowed, she heard breaths she had not taken. They were quick and shallow — fearful. Someone hid here.

  She listened close, building a mental picture of what she heard — breathing in the corner, scuffing feet as the person tried to melt into the wall, metal rattling. Malja stepped forward, holding Viper back, ready to attack. A spark popped from the corner followed by a ball of sizzling electricity. A magician. Though blinded by the sudden light, Malja swung Viper in front of her.

  Often in battle, time slowed. This moment, it slowed enough to see that her enemy was not an enemy. It slowed enough for her to pull Viper back before beheading a child.

  All went dark again as the spell dissipated. Malja took a few steps back, staring at the black space where a little boy cowered.

  "It's okay," she said. "I won't hurt you. I thought you were a pirate. I'm sorry. I promise I won't hurt you."

  With another pop, a small electric ball ignited in the air near the boy. He wore remnants of clothing and had been chained to a large pipe passing through the room. To her left, Malja saw a light switch. She flicked on the dim bulbs so the boy didn't have to maintain his spell. A gentle humming came from Malja's right. Looking that way, she saw two batteries, each towering over her. At eye level, a meter read full on one and three-quarters on the other. Her forehead wrinkled as she turned to the boy.

  "He uses you for electricity?"

  The boy said nothing.

  "He said we were running out of power." Malja thought over the treacherous crossing of the main deck. Wuchev expected me to die out there. "Is Captain Wuchev working with the mage-pirates?"

  The boy said nothing.

  Magician or not, Malja refused to let a little boy be treated like property. "Close your eyes," she said, and flipped Viper so it would strike on the outer-crescent. With careful aim, she swung onto the chains. After three solid hits, the metal gave way, falling to the floor with a freeing clatter.

  Rubbing his sore hands, the boy gazed up at Malja and offered a grateful nod.

  "I'm Malja."

  A smile crept onto the boy's face.

  "You got a name?"

  The boy returned to his sullen silence.

  "No? How about ... Tommy? It's a bit unusual, but then again, so are you."

  Again, the boy smiled, and Malja found a glimmer of pleasure warm her.

  Listening to Fawbry and Tommy snore as she dried off, Malja felt that same glimmer inside. She just hoped she hadn't snuffed out the matching one in Tommy. He did his jobs — took care of the horses, collected firewood, helped find water — but he barely glanced in her direction.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered before settling in to sleep. "But I hope you'll understand. Someday."

  * * * *

  Morning arrived with the appetizing aroma of eggs cooking in sweet milk and onions. Malja kept her eyes closed, letting the flavors in the air tempt her tongue. For a moment, she thought she would hear Gregor's deep melodies telling her about planting seasons or Corlin history or why evil must be fought by good people. When she opened her eyes, she found Tommy, and while she missed Gregor terribly, the boy was a welcome sight. He pulled a skillet from the fire and offered her a plate. He then took his own plate and sat facing away.

  "Where did all this come from?" she asked, hoping the tears welling inside her did not fall.

  Fawbry appeared from behind a tree, buttoning his fly, and said, "I figured Ms. Nolan wouldn't miss a few items. You know, your boy is quite handy with a skillet."

  Sitting up, Malja said, "He's not my boy."

  "Oh. Sorry."

  "I can't have children. I don't menstruate."

  The shock on Fawbry's face matched her own. Maybe she had not fully awakened, maybe the weight of the last few days had finally hit her, but the words just blurted out.

  Fawbry stood, plate in hand, unable to speak.

  "I think Jarik and Callib did it to me. Makes me a better warrior, I guess." She dug into her breakfast and Fawbry followed. "Parents do that kind of thing sometimes. They can be harsh to try to make you better." Tommy didn't react, so she focused on her food. It warmed her belly and calmed her body. Afterwards, she acted as if she had not said anything so personal. Fawbry played along.

  "We'll get there today," Fawbry said while saddling his horse.

  "Good."

  "We just have to cross the Yad."

  She knew this would be required, but she hated it regardless. The Yad River cut through the Corlin countryside like an old bone fracture. Its waters ran deep and fast. There were no bridges but plenty of bridge remains. Officially (not that there were any officials), nobody knew why the bridges always failed along the Yad. Some thought the fish used their natural connection with magic to fight what they perceived as an invasion. Some thought the warring brother gods, Korstra and Kryssta, caused the destruction. Most, however, believed every attempt to bridge the river failed because of sabotage.

  The Muyaza magicians controlled all crossings of the Yad. They had their lives tied to it. As long as they existed, no bridges would last. They had established villages at all the key points and sent teams up and down the riverbank looking for anybody stupid enough to start constructing a bridge. They never left enough proof that they were responsible for the accidents that followed.

  Long before reaching the Muyaza village, Malja smelled them. They did not bathe out of contempt for water. It was something to be controlled and dominated — nothing more. The other smell cutting through the air balanced out the rank odor — cooking meats. Soon the trees thinned out, and Malja saw the village forming a half-circle facing the river.

  The Yad stretched off into the distance. Its waters sped along, creating a dull rumble. The massive amount of moving water cooled the air with its fishy odor. One look vanquished any hope of crossing without the Muyaza.

  A small line of people formed outside the village. Two boys sat up front. They collected the toll. They had rich, golden-brown skin and striking, dark eyes. Muscular arms and chiseled chests found unlikely pairings with ripples of fat around the neck and round potbellies. Waddles of loose skin hung below wide lips. Along their sides grew thick bumps that moved like the stumps of amputated limbs.

  They wore dark, heavy animal skins which, Malja admitted, looked better than some of the ad hoc creations people muddled together. Each also wore a carved piece of wood in the hair. Some wore cubes. Some wore a swooping curve. Others wore a jagged bolt.

  "I'd hate to give up a horse," Malja whispered as they took their place in line, "but what else do we have?" This type of negotiation never worked well for her. She knew how to bargain when holding Viper at somebody's throat. The finesse required for a less threatening situation often eluded her.

  Fawbry puffed up. "Don't worry. I know these creatures."

  The line moved slowly while the boys inspected each offering with care. Most customers were quiet, humble, and knew what to bring. Food held the most value. Using magic to cross the river burned a lot of energy. Offering a chi
cken, a dazku, or such got fast, respectful service. Items that could be traded for food at a later date were met with grumbling and negotiating.

  One man offered his services as a cook. The boys said no. He argued and pleaded. "We got cooks," they said and pointed for him to leave. The man got angry and yelled obscenities. In no time, three adults walked from the village, each carrying a club adorned with rusty nails and flexing their oversized arms. Before they reached the line, the man had slinked away.

  "You sure about this?" Malja asked Fawbry. She didn't want to end up having to kill those three men because Fawbry wanted to take responsibility and screwed up.

  "I'm not a brave man," Fawbry said. "Trust me. I want to get across the river without any trouble."

  Malja couldn't argue — partially because of his brazen honesty and partially because their turn in line came up.

  The two boys looked bored and petulant. "How many?" one said with a thick, guttural accent.

  Like a traveling merchant, Fawbry raised his hands to punctuate his words. His multi-colored robe fanned out, mesmerizing the boys for an instant. "The three of us, plus the two horses."

  "What you pay?" one boy said, fighting his urge to smile at Fawbry's entertaining form.

  Fawbry moved closer to the boys while checking over his shoulder. "Look here," he said. The boys peered into his hand and exchanged an unsure look. One boy motioned to the other. The other jogged off to confer with one of the adults. The way the adult scowled gave Malja an itch to grab Viper and prepare for slaughter. Though she could control her hands, her eyes still sought out battle information. The longer the boy and the man talked, the more she saw the fight coming.

  She noted how flat the land lay. The hill they came down was too far back for any initial advantage. She observed those in line, gauging if any posed a serious threat. The boy trotted back and whispered to his cohort. Malja focused on the adult watching from a distance. Any sign of an attack and she would take out the boys first. She hated the idea but the shock might gain her enough time to save Tommy and herself. Maybe even Fawbry.

  The boy giving orders swiped the object from Fawbry's hand and said, "We see you again, food or no cross."

  "Of course, of course. Thank you," Fawbry said. He even added a slight bow and waved to the adult glaring at them. "Thank you," he yelled.

  As they walked toward the village proper, Malja asked, "What did you give them?"

  "Nolan's coin."

  Malja let a grin escape and swore she heard Tommy snigger.

  A young Muyaza woman stood by a small hut. She asked how many were crossing and if the horses would go, too. With an unreadable face, she led them into the inner-yard. The constant activity exhausted Malja just to watch.

  The tribe worked hard all day. Each member had a specific task, all designed to get people across the river. In front of the small huts, the women cooked non-stop, using large cauldrons and whatever food came there way. Some plucked feathers, some butchered a carcass, while some stirred and stirred. Mangy correts and squeaking pheng-mice scampered for bones and gristle amongst the waste piles. A long table stretched toward the shore. Sitting on the gravelly sand, the men surrounded the table and shoveled in food like starving orphans. Meats and vegetables piled high in bowls kept arriving. The older ones received deference while eating, but the extra food did not help. All the elderly men were skeletal, wasting away. They looked lost and confused.

  Malja missed the signal, but somehow three men were assigned to them — two young, one old. This was always the combination. The two men lifted a wooden litter from a tall stack. They placed it next to the old man and waited with patience as the young woman guided him to the center. With the grace and expertise of people who have done this for a lifetime, they lifted the litter and rested its arms on their fat-padded shoulders. The young woman gestured for Malja and her group to follow the men to the river.

  Malja started at the sight before her. She heard Tommy gasp. All across the river, dotting the waters from shore to shore, Malja saw these three-man teams, each surrounded in a shimmering bubble of air. The Muyaza magicians practiced only this one spell, and they did it well. The old ones sat on the litters, focused on their tattooed legs, and created the protective bubble so the others could walk across.

  "Come on," Fawbry said, for their team already had walked to the shore. As impatient as Fawbry sounded, Malja caught him running his forefinger across his forehead — a sign of prayer to Kryssta.

  Why not? They were stepping into a river, a rushing body of water, something which under other circumstances she avoided. To make it worse, the only thing protecting them was an old man's magic.

  Magic ability varied from magician to magician. Part of it was training. Part of it was innate. Some could glance at their tattoos and have a solid spell in a few seconds. Others worked harder. And others strained the whole time. Likewise some spells required more effort even from the best magicians.

  The Muyaza tried to use only the best among them — drownings were bad for business — but Malja didn't know this magic well enough to judge the quality of their assigned magician. Her mouth dried as she neared the water. She tried not to think about magicians, magic, or madness. Just keep walking.

  Water rose around them, as did Malja's tension, but the field did not puncture. The Muyaza had lined this section of the riverbed with wood planks so they could walk without stumbling over slippery rocks and uneven terrain. Spotted fish swam up, stared at the people and horses, mouthed a few O's, and swam away.

  Malja tentatively ran her fingers across where she expected the field to be. Her fingers vibrated and the sensation rushed up her arm, shaking her bones. She snatched back her hand and rubbed it on her leg. It didn't hurt, but it was not something she wanted to experience again.

  The farther they walked, the higher the water rose. Despite her assault suit's attempt to regulate her temperature, Malja shivered and sweat prickled a line down her neck. She worried about the bubble having enough air. She worried about the old man dying suddenly. She thought about the pain of drowning.

  And she thought of the thief's ship and the way she had killed Captain Wuchev. Tommy better appreciate this.

  About halfway across, the river became shallow, and the Muyaza halted for the old magician to rest a moment. Water passed over their feet and splashed on their ankles. Malja glanced back to see the village had become tiny. That's when she saw the Bluesman.

  She whipped out her spyglass to check — another dark-skinned, dark suited fellow with a guitar. This one had a gray beard and one eye clouded over. He argued with the Muyaza. Probably wanted them to hurry.

  "Something wrong?" Fawbry asked.

  "No," she said, closing the spyglass. "Not yet."

  When they reached the opposite shore, they thanked the Muyaza. The men nodded. The village on this side mirrored the one they had left as if the river had cut one village in half. The two litter-carriers set the old magician down with great care as a young woman arrived to guide him to the food table.

  Malja mounted her horse, invigorated to be on an animal on solid ground again. "Let's get moving."

  Chapter 7

  The hours that followed threatened to bring about the ghosts of Malja's memory, but she managed to deflect such thought by focusing on Dead Lake. Fawbry called it a reminder of how the Devastation had changed the world. Before, the area had been composed of hills and forests, roads and towns, houses and families. Children played in their yards, climbing trees and throwing balls. Mothers and fathers worked to better their families and society. Magicians strolled the streets like holy leaders of peace and prosperity.

  In the instant of the Devastation, the town vanished. A giant hole engulfed the land and rains filled it in. Those unfortunate enough not to disappear with the land and roads and homes floated in the new lake, adding their blood to the water.

  All these years later, little life had returned. The innocent blood poisoned the shores. Nothing grew. Gray rocks lit
tered the ground and the occasional bone washed up in the limp tides. It reminded Malja of the Freelands — a dark, wet version.

  Hazy fog rolled off the waters bringing on night a few hours early. Tommy shifted in the saddle, and Malja tried to comfort him with a firm hold, but he shirked off her arm. The horses' various sounds — hoof against stone, air forced through nostrils, headshakes jingling reins — amplified in the narrowing visibility. Malja's eyes never ceased searching for threats.

  "Almost there," Fawbry said, his eagerness unmistakable.

  All of what counted for civilization lay so far back that Malja understood why Fawbry might feel safe here. Desolate and destroyed, the area would be lonely, but alone and alive sounded better than surrounded by others and dead. A figure appeared in the haze causing Malja to reconsider the "alone" part.

  "It's okay," Fawbry said. "They're just the Chi-Chun."

  "I thought they were a story."

  "No, the Chi-Chun have existed for a long time. I'm not saying they really have the magic to ward off the dead. Frankly, I don't really believe the dead are going to rise. But they believe."

  As they rode by, Tommy's hand trembled. Malja fought off the urge to respond. The Chi-Chun presented a frightening figure. He stood six feet tall, but seemed bigger, framed by bony trees and thin foliage. He wore a frayed, black robe — tattered cloth that draped him like seaweed. He stood motionless with his hooded head hung low and his arms outstretched. Malja imagined the pain his arms would radiate after only a few minutes. If the stories were true, he would stand like that for several hours.

  Fawbry explained that the Chi-Chun were a sect of Korstrians that had few but highly devoted followers. They believed Dead Lake was the epicenter of the Devastation and if not constantly kept in check, a second blast would occur, strong enough to ensure extinction for every living thing. "According to their texts, the first sign of this blast will be the return of all the dead at Dead Lake," Fawbry said with a derisive snort.