World Enough, and Time

by James Kahn

  Beauty reared up to bring his hooves swiftly down on the screaming creature already mortally wounded by Isis; and in a moment, stove in its brain.

  In thirty seconds it was all over.

  Josh picked himself up painfully. A large bruise was already starting to flower across the lower half of his back. Jasmine wiped the putrid blood from her blade over some dry grass, then carefully resheathed it. Isis, puffed up to twice her size, slowly let her fur down, still suspicious of movement in the dead Accidents.

  Beauty snorted. “We had best leave quickly. Even Accidents have friends in this wood.”

  Josh pulled his knife out of the eyeless creature’s head, cleaned the steel with dirt and moss. He felt good. He was another Accident closer to Dicey.

  Beauty felt bad that he’d not even had time to string arrow, so he took some of his anger out on Jasmine. “Perhaps if we made less noise …” he glowered.

  She bowed a token bow, a gesture to his pride. He prided himself on his honesty as well, though; so added, with only a little less force: “Still, you were quick. And fought well.” With which he turned setting a brisk canter down the path.

  Silently, the others followed.

  The little compartment was dark and cramped and ripe with the sweaty smell of fear. It rocked slowly, over bumps, up, down, to the side. Rose could see shafts of daylight filter through cracks in the wooden walls of the covered cart: the light shifted over the shadowed forms of the six. others who were tied up around her: souls in Hell.

  Outside she could hear the bantering growls of her sentries as they walked alongside the cart. She had their voices memorized, so she could identify them if she ever… the thought never went further.

  She guessed it was late morning now, by the color of the slivers of light that crossed her eyes. Late morning and a light wind. Nearby, the sound of—

  There was a bump, a dip; a crash, as the entire cart tipped to a forty-five-degree angle and lay still. Rose sat pressed against the grainy wall; she waited without moving. Suddenly the back door was thrown open, and a cascade of light filled the little cell. A figure stood in the obscure beyond. “Everybody out,” it said. The seven bound hostages piled out of the cart, then stood, squinting, on the grass.

  Rose viewed the situation, her hands tied behind her. The cart they were being carried in had broken a wheel—it now lay at a dead tilt in the ditch. Irreparable.

  The seven prisoners huddled together—Rose, Dicey, Ollie, and four others whom Rose had never seen before their mutual internment. Their hands were all bound behind them. Surrounding them were eight guards: three Vampires, four Accidents, a Griffin. The guards were discussing their dilemma in low tones. Dicey and Rose came closer together and whispered.

  “What’ll they do now?” asked Dicey. Her voice quavered through her stoic facade. Ollie still looked to be in shock, huddled into himself, unspeaking, autistic.

  “Don’t know,” answered Rose. “They’ll have to walk us wherever they’re taking us, I suppose.”

  “Josh will be sure to find us, now,” Dicey concluded. “We’ll be leaving sign all over the ground.1”

  Rose nodded. “Sign and scent,” she specified, and spat on the grassy dirt beside her. Dicey smiled, twisted around. Her hands still bound behind her, she delicately maneuvered her fingers to pull from Rose’s head a long, dark hair, letting it drop to the ground.

  One of the Vampires looked over. “What’s going on there?” he demanded. Rose and Dicey were silent. The Vampire strode over in three large steps, grabbed the young girl by the shoulder, pulled her back to his cohorts. She screamed as he put his teeth into her neck and sucked her ruby blood.

  She ceased her cry and froze in terror, while he took his pleasure. Rose stood, horrified, for a few moments, then ran at the fiend. The other prisoners stared blankly, dumbly on. One of the other Vampires struck the onrushing Rose a dispassionate backhand to the face: she fell, unconscious before she hit the ground. The creatures all laughed.

  The Vampire abusing Dicey pulled his mouth from her neck, licked his lips. Blood oozed from the marks he’d left in her. She whimpered. The Vampire passed her to his friend beside him, and said, “For you, Bal-Sire. Primed and siphoned.” They all laughed again, as the Vampire called Bal forced Dicey to him, clamping his mouth on her bleeding neck.

  She closed her eyes, went limp in his grip. He finished drinking quickly, though, only to shake her awake rudely. Into her stark, staring face he spoke, cool, cruel, articulate:

  “A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill He holds her helpless breast…”

  Dicey’s eyes returned Bal’s gaze in mad, stupefied horror, her blood drying at the corners of his mouth. He abruptly passed her on to the third Vampire, who slurped disgustingly at her open wound.

  The first Vampire grabbed her wrist, now, bit it, and began lapping at the flow. Bal stopped him quickly, though, saying, “Enough, Sire Uli. A dead Human is of little use to anyone.” One of the Accidents who was listening turned to the one beside him and said, “Uman dugro. Oglo dor.” All the Accidents laughed.

  Bal smiled. “The Accidents have their own feelings about Human life,” he said. Uli let go the bleeding wrist of the now swooning girl; the other Vampire extracted his teeth from her neck. She fainted. Uli dragged her back to the cluster of shuddering Humans and dropped her in a heap. A few yards away, Rose began groggily to awaken.

  The Vampire resumed discussion. The Accidents stood together a short distance away, conversing with each other as softly as their ugly language permitted. The Griffin perched on a rock by himself, preening his feathers with a broken beak.

  Josh peered over a shelf of rock at the motionless lake. No animal stood at the shore to drink; no fish stirred the surface. This water was dead.

  Josh turned back to his companions. “No one there. Let’s head south.”

  The others agreed. “Animals never use this lake anymore,” said Jasmine. “It’s all salt and peat.”

  They dog-legged south, the four of them. Somehow Humbelly got left behind at a floral distraction. Each of the others noticed her absence at some point, but each thought, with reason, it was probably for the best; so no one said a word.

  After an hour of steady jogging, they came to a span of rolling meadow. First a long, furze-covered dip, then a slow, bushy ascent, where a muddy game-path climbed the rise, veering right.

  There’d been fire in this part of the forest, years before; so all the trees were young. The evidence of old fire reminded Beauty of his farmhouse aflame, causing him to walk more quietly. Everyone seemed to pick up on this feeling, as if echoes of the roaring blaze pervaded the air. Jasmine watched every step, lest she crush some fragile recollection. The thin shadows cast by the saplings crisscrossed the ground like bones. Even Isis trod quietly.

  Joshua stepped softly in any case: the pain in his flank, where the Accident had struck him, was beginning to nag, like an unwanted guest. Every pace was accompanied by a small hammer in his back, tap, tap, tap. He made no mention of his pain, though, for he was still young, and foolishly thought stoicism was the stuff with which the wise tempered their bravery.

  It was over this charred ground that Beauty first noted the creature circling high above them. Jasmine followed his gaze. “It’s been keeping pace with us about three miles,” she said.

  “You have good eyes,” he commented.

  Josh looked up, squinting. “What is it?” he asked;

  “Too high to tell,” Jasmine replied.

  “Best to keep moving,” Beauty murmured, never missing a step.

  Isis hissed once and scampered ahead, crouching in every available shadow, then darting on.

  Unconsciously, they moved faster: flying animals were dangerous. Even if this one wasn’t a Vampire on the prowl, it had to be regarded as life-threatening until proven otherwise. And it was always unnerving to be watched. Beauty strung an arrow;
Jasmine and Josh bared their blades.

  They passed under a wild-grape arbor, and when they emerged, the shape in the sky was gone. Not one of them breathed easier.

  A bamboo grove spread before them, like a green rustling sea, filling all directions. And since there was no way to estimate the extent of its perimeter, into its depths they plunged. Within a matter of yards, they were completely surrounded by the ten-foot stalks.

  Headway was difficult The grove thinned and thickened. Jasmine led the way, so she could chop with her épée as necessary. The constant sshhhhssshh-hsshh of the wind in the bamboo made tracking even harder, for now auditory as well as visual cues were lost. They tried to aim due south.

  For many minutes they pressed this way, when suddenly a large-winged shadow passed directly over the leafy tops above their heads and thundered into the brush beyond them. They stopped short, breathing only with the wind. Up, ahead, a furious rustling drew near. Then it ceased.

  Beauty, Josh, and Jasmine separated, their weapons drawn, and circled the recently active silence. Isis remained behind, to coordinate the attack.

  Silently, Jasmine crept around behind the interloper.

  She felt edgy, but somehow tranquil at the same time: she’d been in this moment a hundred times before and she moved with liquid purpose. Poised, confident, she waited for the signal to attack.

  Josh had somewhat more difficulty. His back was hurting worse; he wasn’t certain where the beast had come to rest; he wasn’t certain what the beast even was. He was anxious; but determined.

  Beauty viewed the situation with the most equanimity as he made his way through the brush around the right flank: Beauty was, at base, a hunter; and this was a hunt. Beauty felt in balance.

  Isis waited a full minute for the others to get positioned. Then, at what she sensed to be the right moment, she let out a signal screech, and the others descended from three directions on their quarry. They pounced into what proved to be a small clearing in the grove. In the center of the clearing was a wounded roan Pegasus.

  The winged horse tried to rear back when the three armed hunters approached; but her hind foot was badly damaged, so she stumbled to the ground, her big nostrils flaring, wings flapping wildly, terror in her eye. Beauty laid his bow on the ground in front of her, to show her he meant no harm. The others sheathed their weapons.

  Beauty knelt down beside the frightened creature, stroked her head evenly, calmed her fevered stare. “So this is our sinister flying stalker,” he said to his companions, his own relief mingled with the wing-horse’s anguish.

  Josh saw that one great feathered wing was caught between two bamboos. He freed the wing and folded it gently back against the Pegasus’ dark, sweating body. Isis entered the clearing now; suspiciously, she hung back. Jasmine, meanwhile, examined the animal’s wounded hind leg.

  “This isn’t just broken,” she said, wrinkling her brow. She brought her nose up to the raw skin over the fetlock. “This foot’s been burned.”

  Josh walked over to Isis, scratched her between the ears. The Cat closed her eyes, concentrating on nothing but the fingers.

  Beauty nuzzled the still-terrified Pegasus, then softly whinnied into her ear. “What’s the matter, girl? You step in a fire?”

  At that moment another shadow passed over the clearing: a long shadow, lasting many seconds. The Pegasus shrieked and tried to stand, knocking Beauty back, kicking Jasmine’s chest. Josh looked up to see the barbed tip of a green scaly tail float quickly through his field of vision and out of sight. Isis hissed.

  In less than a second a huge stench filled the grove, accompanied by the baritone sigh of gas escaping out a tunnel under pressure. With a strength and speed they could not have imagined, Jasmine leapt into the thickest bamboo, dragging Josh and half pulling Beauty with her, as she screamed the single word “Dragon!” In the next moment the entire clearing erupted with a muted wamp, in flame.

  The bamboo shielded them from much of the heat; but even so, Josh got singed, and Beauty lost some tail. They looked back into the clearing: the ground and closest trees were scorched black and bare; the dead Pegasus was all aflame, its burning feathers sending charcoal smoke to the sky.

  “We haven’t much time,” Jasmine breathed rapidly. “It’ll fire this grove until we’re all cooked. Beauty, where’s your bow?”

  The Centaur felt at his back, but it wasn’t around. He looked back into the clearing. “There,” he said. They all looked. The bow lay on the charred ground, burning beside the pyre of the winged horse.

  Suddenly the shadow passed again, closer this time, and immediately a section of trees went up in flame across the other side of the clearing. Josh twisted to get a look at the beast, but it hurt his back so much—from the blow the Accident had given him—he cried out in pain and fell to the ground.

  Jasmine yelled, “Come on, then,” to Beauty, over the roar of the burning trees, and ran into the clearing. Without a second’s thought, he followed: she’d taken command of the situation, and he trusted her. She pulled out her épée and began chopping at the base of a sapling whose topmost branches were blazing furiously. “Dragons aren’t that hard to kill,” she panted, “but we’ve got to do this fast, we might not get another chance.”

  “I … I have no experience Dragon-fighting,” he confessed. “I was always taught to leave them be, and …”

  “Okay, here,” she finished chopping and handed him the base of the burning stalk. It looked like a torch with a fifteen-foot handle. He took it from her as she climbed on his back. “Joshua,” she yelled, “crawl through the tall grass toward the burning area. Quick.” She directed Beauty into the section adjacent to the area of flaming bamboo. “It’ll fire the area opposite to the one it just fired,” she whispered. “Fortunately, they have pretty stereotyped behavior.” Just as she spoke the grove opposite them burst into smoking conflagration. “Shades of napalm,” she muttered.

  Now only the last and west edge of the clearing remained safe. “Move to the center of the eastern edge,” she whispered. Beauty moved silently through the thicket and almost stepped on Josh.

  “Watch out!” Josh yelled under his breath.

  “Quiet,” Jasmine said. Then, to Beauty: “Now. It’ll fire the area across from us next, and then it should fly directly over us. As soon as you see that explosion, I’m going to stand on your shoulders, you hand me the torch, and then hold on to my legs so I don’t fall off you. Got it?”

  Before he could answer, the distant grasses glowered into flame, and Jasmine jumped up onto his shoulders. He handed her the burning bamboo, gripped her calves tightly so she wouldn’t fall.

  Jasmine thrust herself up until she stood straight on the Centaur’s shoulders, wobbling slightly, the long torch in her hands, the highest leaves of the bamboo grove scraping her chest. She looked up in time to see the Dragon swooping past her, perhaps ten feet above her head: a thirty-foot winged lizard, green, foul-smelling, evil, its eyes on stalks, its mouth dripping flame. It wasn’t looking down, but back; so it didn’t see her. Its pale, scaled underbelly glided sleekly over Jasmine’s face, and when two-thirds of its length had passed her by, she rammed the burning bamboo stick up the beast’s cloaca. The creature instantly exploded; the shock wave blew Jasmine to the ground. The three of them lay there for a moment, surrounded by dying fires in a dying wind. Then without a word, they stood and walked back to where the Dragon had fallen.

  It was as ugly in death as life. Its belly was blown wide open, from breastbone to tail, its putrescent entrails spilled on the ground. A webbed spine rose like a sail from its back, between two great spiky leather wings. Its stalked eyes lay askew in the dirt, its black mouth was open.

  “Wretched miscreant,” Jasmine glowered, shaking her head. Then louder: “Stupid brutes, and slow. Their bowels are ballooned up with methane—they fart constantly. Then when they want to breathe fire they just belch while they gnash their teeth—their teeth spark when they hit lots of elemental magnesium in them,
I think. In fact, we should take some with us for flints.” She bent down, picked up a rock, and smashed in the Dragon’s dentition. Then she picked up the black, broken tooth fragments and handed two each to Josh and Beauty.

  Josh was impressed. He prided himself on his hunting abilities, but he’d rarely seen anyone as cool under fire as Jasmine had been. He put the flints carefully in his pocket—more to be kept as a reminder of this event than as a means for starting some future camp-fire.

  Beauty, too, was beginning to have mixed feelings about the Neuroman. She’d fought well twice, now. If only she didn’t talk so much.

  Only Jasmine failed to feel very triumphant: there was little satisfaction for her in killing large dumb animals who were merely searching for food. No challenge and little justice. She satisfied herself only in the knowledge that there was little loss here—Dragons were simply not very worthwhile.

  With a sudden thought, Josh looked up. “Isis,” he said. Then he called, “Isis?”

  Momentarily the little Cat appeared, the sorriest of expressions on her face. Half of her backside fur was burned away, leaving pink, naked skin. She grimaced as the others burst out laughing. She briefly assessed the situation, walked over to the dead reptile, and perfunctorily urinated on its face.

  As they made ready to leave, Beauty said, “Your knife, Joshua.” He took the blade from his friend and neatly sliced open the lizard’s thoracic cavity. Next, he located a long, strong rib—still intact from the explosion in the Dragon’s belly—and carefully cut it out of the rib cage. He stripped the fat and muscle from the bone, notched both ends, and finally laid the six-foot rib in the dirt. The others watched patiently.

  Next, the Centaur filleted open the inner aspect of the beast’s back legs, and with careful dissection exposed the length of the sinewy flexor tendon that ran from the hip past the knee—the hamstring. He cut the tendon at both ends, then tightly secured each end to one of the notched tips of the rib he’d prepared, stretching the tendon taut across the arc of the bone. Now he was finished, and he slung his strong new bow over his shoulder. “Let us not dally,” he spoke evenly, and resumed a steady southward march, as if nothing had happened.